on  FTP  ©IF 

Miss   Frances   M.   Molera 


UfttAtr 


HOURS    IN    MY    GARDEN 


MY  GARDEN   SUMMER-SEAT. 


HOURS  IN  MY  GARDEN 


AND  OTHER  NATURE-SKETCHES. 


BY 


ALEXANDER  H.  JAPP,  LL.D.,  F.R.S.E. 

AUTHOR  OF  "LIFE  OF  DE  QUINCEY,"  ETC.  ETC. 


WITH  138  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY  W.  H.  J.  BOOT, 
A.  W.  COOPER,  AND  OTHER  ARTISTS. 


NEW   YORK 
MACMILLAN     AND     CO 

1893 


*IOLO«? 
U»tAtT 


B/'o 

/,'*£, 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

PREFACE  .           .          .          .           .  .           .           r  .        vii 

I.    MY  GARDEN    SUMMER-SEAT      .  .           .1  •    '       9 

II.   MY   POND            .                   ....          .    -  .           .           .  -49 

III.  MY   WOOD            .           .           .  .           .  -74 

IV.  THE  DELIGHTS  OF   HEDGEROWS  .          .          .  .96 
V.   UP   IN   THE  MORNING   EARLY  ...          .  .109 

VI.   WITH   THE   NIGHTINGALES   AT   THE  VICARAGE        .      135 

vii.  "THROUGH  THE  WHEAT"     ...       .       .       .    147 

VIII.  MY   FAVOURITE   SUMMER-HOUSES   .           ..'.".      l6o 

IX.  THE  VILLAGE   WELL           .           .           .           .           .           *      1 86 

X.  RUSHES     .          "...           .                      .           .           .190 

XL  BEES  AND   BEE-KEEPING            ...          .           .           .      195 

XII.  STILL  WATER    .           .           ~~~~      .    '      .           .           .           .      205 

XIII.  A   SCOTTISH   TROUT   STREAM 2IO 

XIV.  AN   ENGLISH   STREAM        .          .  .  .  .  .238 

XV.  WILD   DUCKS,   WATER-BIRDS,    AND   SEA-FOWL           .      252 

XVI.  ASHESTIEL   AND   SIR   WALTER   SCOTT  .  .  .272 

XVII.  IN   DURHAM   AND   NEAR    IT      .           .' "  .  ^      .  .277 

XVIII.  IN   COQUETDALE        .                      .           .  .  .  .289 

XIX.  ABOUT  WOOLER         .           .           .           .  .  .  .      307 

APPENDIX. 

I.    IMITATIVE   BIRDS  AND   THE  NIGHTINGALE'S  SONG      319 
II. ..THE  VOLES         .  . 328 

in.  THE  WOODPECKER'S  TONGUE     ,  .  .    330 

IV.    THE   ROOKS 332 

V.    FEET  OF  THE   DIPPER   AND   COOT  .  .  .  .      334 

INDEX .       ';;"'-  .     335 


M505441 


PREFACE. 

THE  following  pages  aim  at  presenting  some  personal 
impressions  and  observations,  as  well  as  the  results  of 
some  reading.  The  author  hopes  that  he  has  duly 
signified  his  indebtedness  to  others  where  this  was 
necessary.  He  trusts  that  his  essays  may  not  be 
found  other  than  pleasant  reading,  and  that  young 
folks  here  and  there  may  derive  some  stimulus  to 
more  systematic  study  of  nature  than  he  was  for- 
tunate enough  to  have  the  chance  of  making  while 
still  young. 

ALEXANDER  H.  JAPP. 


HOURS   IN    MY  GARDEN. 


ERRATUM. 

Page  181,  line  13  from  bottom,  for  "with  its  church  tower" 
read  "  with  its  old  church,  and  peal  of  bells  so  strangely  placed, 
and  nunnery  with  its  little  tower." 


by  winds,  so  gentle  as  to  be  imperceptible  to  the 
senses,  or  by  the  movements  of  the  life  around  me, 
which  never  pauses.  In  this  corner  I  allow  no  garden 
flowers  proper,  but  only  wildings  of  field  and  wood  and 
hedgerow.  It  is  also  a  kind  of  asylum  and  sanctuary 
for  some  of  the  outlaws  of  the  garden,  who  here,  I  con- 
fess, do  their  best  to  atone  for  the  sins  of  their  kindred 
in  forbidden  ground. 

I  have  thus  around  me  the  delightful  record  of  many 
pleasant  wanderings — a  kind  of  index  or  memory-map 


HOURS   IN    MY  GARDEN. 


MY  GARDEN  SUMMER-SEAT. 

HAVE  erected  in   my  garden  a 
little  summer-seat,  in  a  spot  of 
my  own   choice — the  remotest 
corner  of  all.     There,  in  the 
sunny  afternoons,  sheltered 
by  the  foliage  (for  it  is  placed 
against  a  thick  beech  hedge, 

which  just  at  that  point  has  been  allowed  to  grow 
high,  so  as  to  afford  a  canopy  of  greenery  overhead), 
I  sit  and  read  or  muse  and  observe  by  turns  as  my 
fancy  inclines.  Even  on  the  calmest  days  there  is  a 
faint  stir  and  movement,  I  know  not  whether  caused 
by  winds,  so  gentle  as  to  be  imperceptible  to  the 
senses,  or  by  the  movements  of  the  life  around  me, 
which  never  pauses.  In  this  corner  I  allow  no  garden 
flowers  proper,  but  only  wildings  of  field  and  wood  and 
hedgerow.  It  is  also  a  kind  of  asylum  and  sanctuary 
for  some  of  the  outlaws  of  the  garden,  who  here,  I  con- 
fess, do  their  best  to  atone  for  the  sins  of  their  kindred 
in  forbidden  ground. 

I  have  thus  around  me  the  delightful  record  of  many 
pleasant  wanderings— a  kind  of  index  or  memory-map 


io  My  Garden  Summer-Seat. 


of  all  the  loveliest  spots 
in  the  neighbourhood  ;  the 
spirit  or  essence  of  the 
beauty  of  the  place  I  have 
treasured  here ;  and  I  have 
my  reward  in  a  succession 
of  the  most  lovely  and 
dainty  effects  imaginable. 
Primroses  in  their  tufts 
firmly  rooted  have  spread 
under  a  favourite  lilac 
tree,  till  the  little  bed  in  the 
spring  is  a  thick  carpet  of 
green  and  gold.  Stately 
foxgloves  (folks'-gloves, 
remember;  gloves  of  the 
folk,  the  fairy-folk,  of 
which  fox  here  is  a  mean- 
ingless degradation)  have 
found  a  fitting  and  con- 
genial home  in  the  old 
mould  at  the  foot  of  the 
hedgerow,  and  nod  and 


FOXGLOVES. 


An  Omen.  i  i 


wave  in  the  later  spring  and  summer — the  loveliest 
colour  against  the  green  of  the  hedge  itself.  Surely 
I  am  lucky  in  such  an  omen,  and  the  fairies  may  visit 
my  garden  for  their  own  purposes  under  the  moon- 
light, for  they  are  not  all  dead  yet.  Little  common 
daisies  ope  their  golden  eyes,  and  sometimes,  I  think, 
wink  and  beckon,  as  if  they  had  some  secret  to  tell. 
And  this  I  feel  the  more  as  the  daisy,  as  an  everlast- 
ing, knows  no  seasons  and  has  its  secrets  accordingly. 

"  The  rose  is  but  a  summer  flower, 
The  daisy  never  dies." 

Honeysuckle  struggles  upwards,  and  the  white  con- 
volvulus puts  forth  its  fairy  trumpets,  those  flowers  of 
a  day,  as  the  French  call  them,  that  are  born  at  morn, 
fall  off  at  eve,  but  are  so  soon  succeeded  by  others  that 
we  do  not  notice  their  loss ;  and  they  mix  deliciously 
with  the  red  thorn  with  which  here  and  there  breaks 
in  the  hedge  have  been  filled  up.  Ferns  of  many  kinds 
wave  in  a  rough  rockery  built  up  in  the  corner,  which 
erstwhile  was  a  rubbish  heap ;  and  wild  violets  peep 
through  with  their  gentle  eyes,  and  wild  hyacinths, 
blue  and  even  white,  and  anemones  have  condescended 
to  blossom,  and  to  impart  a  touch  of  lady-like  delicacy, 
grace,  and  purity,  that  my  corner  might  not  fail  of  the 
most  exquisite  variety.  If  fortune  favours  me,  I  shall 
try  to  settle  some  droseras  in  a  shallow  wooden  box 
on  the  rockery  slope,  and  conduct  a  little  jet  of  water  to 
flow  and  spread  above  them,  and  then  my  little  corner 
will,  to  my  mind,  be  finished.  But,  alas !  here  as  in 
other  things,  the  final  touch  is  the  hardest  to  succeed 
in,  and  there  remains  the  necessity  of  constant  effort. 
Well,  perhaps,  that  it  is  so,  for  else  one  would  fall  to 
drowse  in  a  dull  content.  A  botanist  might,  perhaps 


12 


My  Garden  Summer-Seat. 


urge  that  there  is  an  air  of  irony  in  my  finishing  touch, 
since  the  droseras  would  prove  the  enemies  of  many 
minute  insects  which  I  profess  to  have  a  sneaking 
regard  for;  and  certainly  there  is  some  truth  in  this, 
which  just  shows  that  in  this  style  of  gardening,  as 

___^_    ^n   art)    to°   &reat 

an  aim  at  com- 
pleteness may 
lead  to  the  in- 
trusion  of 
elements  that 
are  more  or  less 
destructive  of  the 
first  fresh  ideal. 
But  then  there  is 
still  a  good  deal 
of  doubt  about 
some  points  in  the 
manner  in  which 
the  droseras  pro- 
pagate them- 
selves ;  and  thus 
scientific  curiosity, 
even  in  my  small 
way,  I  must  own, 
comes  into  con- 
flict with  the 
simple  idea  of 
nature  and  life. 
Alas,  nature  is 
like  Chronos  of  old,  and  apt  to  eat  up  her  own  chil- 
dren by  the  aid  of  her  other  children,  and  thus  the 
sweet  idyllic  element  will  not  long  remain  intact, 
however  much  we  may  strive  to  maintain  it. 


SUNDEW  (Drosera  roh/ndifolia}. 


Persistency  of  Dandelion.  13 


To  keep  order  in  some  degree,  and  yet  not  to  make 
my  corner  too  orderly,  is  the  problem.  A  touch  of 
rustic  carelessness  is  necessary  to  the  effect  I  desire, 
but  difficult  to  attain  with  due  regard  to  the  interests 
of  the  other  parts  of  the  garden ;  for  dandelions  will 
intrude  in  too  strong  force,  and  rag-weed  and  plantain 
and  groundsel  will  find  a  refuge  when  ruthlessly  driven 
out  elsewhere.  However,  I  have  an  idea  that  such  a 
corner  as  this  is  a  fine  safety-valve,  so  to  speak — a 
free  lung  and  breathing  space  for  certain  outcasts  of 
gardeners,  which  yet  are  very  beautiful  in  their  way, 
and  sometimes  very  useful  too. 

The  dandelion  is  indeed  a  very  persistent  plant, 
armed  as  it  were  by  nature  with  almost  magical 
powers  to  secure  its  continuance.  With  its  many 
edible  and  medicinal  virtues  it  would  seem  to  contest 
the  common  saying  that  good  things  either  are  scarce 
or  are  tied  up  in  little  bundles.  Were  its  virtues  only 
fully  appreciated,  it  would  be  much  more  in  use  than 
it  is.  The  rabbits  know  its  virtues,  and  use  it  largely, 
and  anybody  who  keeps  tame  ones  will  do  wrong  not 
to  let  them  taste  it  now  and  then.  And  man,  proud 
man,  drest  in  a  little  brief  authority,  despises  the 
lesson  he  might  learn  from  the  animals;  and,  instead 
of  enjoying  dandelion  in  coffee  or  salad,  waits  till  he 
is  compelled  to  take  it  in  pills  and  potions.  Even  as 
greens  the  stalks  are  good  :  no  salad  is  perfect  without 
them.  Were  it  only  scarce  it  would  be  eagerly  sought 
after.  Dandelion  coffee  may  be  bought,  but  on  the 
word- 'of  a  good  authority,  it  is  but  a  poor  make-shift 
for  the  dandelion  coffee  that  may  be  grown  and  made 
by  anybody.  Yet  few  dream  of  making  it,  simple  as 
it  is.  The  bitter  in  it  is  the  valuable  element,  and  the 
preparation  is  easy.  The  roots  only  require  to  be 


14  My  Garden  Summer-Scat. 

carefully  dried  and  ground  up,  and  then  infused  like 
coffee,  to  supply  the  best  medicine  for  the  liver  pro- 
curable. 

Ha !  as  I  sit  here  musing,  dandelion  puts  itself  en 
evidence.  There  come  sailing  towards  me  little  soft 
downy  parachutes,  dappled  or  patterned  with  minute 
pearly  stars,  that  float  and  waver,  though  there  is  no 
wind  that  I  can  perceive.  These  are  the  seeds  with 
their  tipped  wings  ready  to  take  hold  of  any  likely 
bit  of  soil  that  will  welcome  them.  How  well  they 
illustrate  nature's  economy,  and  even  fine  art,  in  ways 
and  means,  and  in  adapting  means  to  ends.  But  by 
what  secret  impulse  are  they  moved  in  this  direction, 
like  little  fairy  ships  or  balloons  steering  through  the 
still  air  ?  Of  them  it  cannot  surely  be  said  as  Coleridge 
said  of  his  phantom  ship  in  the  "  Ancient  Mariner":— 

"  The  air  is  cut  away  before 
And  closes  from  behind." 

I  know  not  what  propels  them,  only  I  know  that 
this  is  a  very  ancient  observation,  and  that  some  of 
the  old  botanists  built  a  belief  or  fancy  on  it — a  point 
of  weather  lore.  They  said  that  if  the  down  of  the 
dandelion  or  thistle  flies  away  when  there  is  no  wind, 
this  is  a  sure  sign  of  rain.  I  confess  I  have  not  been 
able  satisfactorily  to  verify  this,  any  more  than  that 
other  assertion  of  theirs,  that  the  stalks  which  support 
the  down  of  the  dandelion  huddle  together  in  moist 
weather  under  their  fluffy  umbrella,  as  if  they,  too, 
dreaded  the  effects  of  a  drenching;  and  yet  I  fancy 
I  have  seen  them  shrink  together — a  mere  fancy 
perhaps. 

The  plantain — that  outlaw  of  lawn  and  border — takes 
root  here,  and  in  little  open  spaces  shoots  its  stalks  up 


Way-bread.  1 5 

to  a  height  of  nigh  a  foot.  The  persistent  efforts  of 
the  gardener  to  exterminate  it  in  the  little  lawn  over 
there,  which  had  long  lain  in  neglect  and  got  overrun 
prior  to  our  coming  to  the  place,  brought  out  some 
evidence  that  would  almost  suggest  conscious  con- 
trivance. As  he  plied  the  lawn-mower  systematically, 
the  plants  more  and  more  shortened  the  stalks,  and 
grew  flatter  and  flatter  under  the  leaf,  contriving  in 
some  sort  to  seed  so  without  showing  the  flower  or 
seed-pod.  There  was  nothing  for  it  in  the  third 
season  but  to  settle  matters  by  taking  up  each  in- 
dividual root  with  the  daisy-grubber,  for  it  was  clear 
that  they  would  have  contrived  to  live  and  to  spread, 
though  in  limited  measure,  however  mowed,  if  the 
roots  were  left,  as  they  also  propagate  by  root  as  well 
as  by  seed.  Such  is  their  power  of  adaptation,  which 
almost  makes  me  believe  in  some  form  of  conscious 
adaptation  to  circumstances.  Dr.  Taylor's  "Sagacity 
and  Morality  of  Plants  "  had  thus  a  wonderful  experi- 
ence in  its  favour  in  observation  of  the  ways  of  the 
plantain  on  that  lawn ;  and  out  of  respect  for  its  sheer 
persistency  and  its  wise  adaptiveness,  I  gladly  yield 
it  a  little  corner  in  my  rustic  reserve. 

Way-bread,  corrupted  from  waybred,  it  is  called  by 
the  people  here  because  of  its  being  bred  on  the  way, 
and  its  marvellous  tendency  to  follow  in  the  footsteps 
of  men,  as  if  attached  to  the  white  faces,  particularly  to 
the  British.  They  say,  it  has  followed  our  colonists  to 
every  part  of  the  world,  so  that  it  has  been  named  by 
the  natives  of  some  of  our  settlements,  "  The  English- 
man's foot."  Can  it  be  that  there  are  in  it  hidden 
elements  of  healing  and  purification  not  yet  discovered, 
which  Providence  means  the  white  man  to  recog- 
nise and  take  advantage  of?  The  balance  of  nature, 


1 6  My  Garden  S^lmmer-Seat. 

indeed,  is  wonderful,  but  so  are  the  wise  adaptations  of 
nature  to  men's  wants  ;  and  mysterious  and  inscrutable 
are  the  potent  agents  of  man's  relief  still  stored  up  in 
plant  and  tree.  Bruised  plantain  leaves,  in  old  days, 
were  esteemed  among  the  rustics  an  excellent  remedy 
for  cuts  and  bruises,  and  also  for  the  bites  of  stinging 
insects,  and  in  Scotland  an  ointment  is  made  from  them 
that  is  sometimes  very  efficacious.  Its  mucilaginous 
properties  are  remarkable.  And  what  if  the  uses  dis- 
covered in  it  are  but  prophecies  of  some  still  more 
efficient  element  in  specific  disease  ?  Perhaps,  then, 
way-bread  is  not  a  corruption  after  all,  and  originates 
in  some  early  conception  of  edible  properties  in  the 
plant  due  to  the  mucilaginous  element  in  it. 

I  even  allow  a  nettle  or  two  in  my  preserve,  and 
have  put  in  a  plea  for  some  of  the  common  field  nettles 
to  be  allowed  to  struggle  through  my  hedge.  This  I 
do,  because  of  my  sense  of  their  beauty  of  leaf  and 
flower,  and  because  certain  of  the  butterflies  are  fond 
of  hovering  over  them.  But  though  I  have  heard 
much  of  the  excellence  of  nettles  for  edible  purposes  in 
various  forms,  I  do  not  affect  a  utilitarian  interest  here. 
In  the  parish  of  Dreepdaily,  I  know  they  "  forced 
nettles  for  early  springkail."  Nettle-tea,  I  am  told,  is 
much  liked  by  some  people,  and  nettles  dressed  like 
spinach  make  tasty  greens ;  but  love  of  these  was  one 
of  the  likings  I  did  not  carry  away  from  my  native 
country,  and  if  I  have  ever  enjoyed  them  they  were 
"disguised."  Nevertheless,  I  believe,  they  may  be  of 
great  value  in  this  way,  for  dried  in  hay,  the  cattle  are 
fond  of  them.  One  of  my  countrymen,  Campbell  by 
name,  complained  bitterly  of  the  neglect  of  these  escu- 
lents in  England,  just  as  the  late  worthy  Dr.  Eisdale 
complained  of  the  neglect  of  mushrooms  in  Scotland 


Poppies.  1 7 


(to  which  esculent,  I  confess,  I  have  however  been 
fully  converted  in  the  South),  and  he  said,  "  In  Scot- 
land I  have  eaten  nettles,  slept  on  nettle-sheets,  and 
dined  off  a  nettle  table-cloth."  The  fibre  is,  however, 
much  more  difficult  to  prepare  for  weaving  than  that 
of  the  flax,  otherwise  it  might  have  found  much  more 
favour  as  a  fabric.  But  the  more  one  looks  into 
matters,  the  more  one  is  convinced  that  in  nature  there 
are  no  "  neer-do-weels,"  as,  alas !  there  are  in  the 
human  family. 

And  I  also  allow  a  thistle  or  two.    I  have,  alas  !  none 
of  the  true  Scottish  thistle,  which,  when  Burns  found 
"  Spreading  wide,  among  the  bearded  bear, 
He  turned  the  weeding  clips  aside 
And  spared  the  symbol  dear," 

but  only  a  few  of  the  milk  thistle,  which  is,  however, 
very  beautiful,  with  its  streaks  of  white  on  the  leaves 
from  which  it  takes  its  name.  I  have  -*®^^ 
also  a  few  poppies,  flaunting  red  in  their  ' -^li :" 
season,  and  later  displaying  their  semi- 
globular  seed-head,  which  gently  rattles 
when  shaken,  like  a  toy-drum,  the  very 
type  and  symbol  of  gay  society — the 
last  of  a  race  which  it  took  long  to  ex- 
tirpate from  the  garden,  and  which  are 
now,  like  the  Iberians  of  Spain,  pushed 
into  the  remotest  corner,  and  tolerated  POPPY. 

and  ruthlessly  kept  down  even  there.  But  he  were  a 
very  churl  of  propriety  and  utilitarianism,  who  would 
not  allow  a  representative  of  the  wondrous  sleep- 
inducing  papavers  in  such  a  plot,  to  remind  him  of 
so  much  of  Homer  and  the  poets,  and  one  secret  of 
mysterious  might  in  the  modern  pharmacopoeia,  and 
also  of  the  wreck  of  many  geniuses  in  later  days — 

B 


1 8  My  Garden  Summer- Seat. 


Coleridge,  Hartley  Coleridge,  Edgar  Allan  Poe,  De 
Quincey,  and  probably  Byron  and  Shelley,  and  how 
many  more  ?  Always  comes  the  question  of  use  and 
abuse  of  God's  good  things. 

And  among  them  without  any  regularity  are  set 
some  sun-flowers,  on  which  certain  bees  so  love  to 
pasture  at  certain  seasons,  that  I  have 
found  them  in  the  evening  quite  tipsy, 
as  is  the  case  also  with  the  passion- 
flower, from  some  element  in  the 
nectar,  and  unable  to  take  care  of 
themselves  and  go  home  like  respect- 
able hive  citizens.  This  proves  that 
there  is  virtue  in  the  sun-flower,  which 
is  said  to  be  good  as  an  eatable  in 
many  ways.  "  The  fresh  flowers,  just 
before  full  bloom,"  says  Mr.  James 
Long,  a  good  practical  authority, 
"  furnish  a  dish  scarcely  inferior  to  the  artichoke.  The 
seeds  ground  into  flour  make  very  good  cakes,  and,  if 
roasted,  furnish  a  drink  not  much  inferior  to  cocoa. 
The  leaf  is  often  used  as  tobacco,  the  seed  pods  are 
made  into  blotting-paper,  and  the  plants,  if  grown  in 
damp  places,  for  they  will  grow  anywhere,  are  a  pro- 
tection against  intermittent  fever." 

But  I  am  afraid  I  only  thus  provide  a  preserve  for 
certain  birds  who  find  tid-bits  among  my  wildings,  and 
am,  in  fact,  only  placing  temptation  in  their  way.  I 
can  see  them  eye  me  sideways,  with  that  remarkable 
air  of  rightful  superiority  which  birds,  even  small  birds, 
can  sometimes  show,  commingled  with  an  indescribable 
element  of  disappointment  and  chagrin,  when  they  are 
making  for  my  corner  of  the  garden,  and  catch  sight  of 
me  there  before  them. 


Sparrows.  1 9 


As  I  sit  here  and  read  and  muse,  or  give  myself  up 
to  no  end  of  pleasant  fancies,  I  see  at  the  outskirts 
lime  trees  in  their  delicate,  semi-transparent  green, 
outlined  against  the  blue  sky — the  lower  leaves,  how- 
ever, taking  a  darker  tinge,  while  the  loftier  preserve 
something  of  earlier  green — and  among  their  leaves 
sparrows,  wrens,  robins,  tomtits,  linnets,  and  other 
finches  delight  to  flutter  and  sport  and  preen  and  hide 
themselves.  Between  are  fruit  trees  of  many  kinds, 
laden  with  their  various  fruits,  still  green  and  shiny. 
And,  higher  than  all  the  rest,  and  close  to  the  lime  trees, 
is  a  copper-beech — dark,  rich,  and  effective,  drooping 
in  the  lower  branches  almost  like  a  weeping-willow. 

I  noted  a  peculiar  circumstance  about  this  tree  in 
the  spring  of  1889.  The  buds  came  out  soft  and 
green,  and — the  weather  having  been  unusually  favour- 
able— it  burst  into  leaf  and  became  copper-dark  almost 
in  one  night. 

Over  a  screen  of  ivy  I  command  a  view  of  a  high 
chimney  of  the  house,  in  which,  during  the  past  season, 
a  couple  of  pairs  of  house-martins  have  had  their 
nests.  Often  have  I  sat  and  watched  their  steady 
coming  and  going  with  the  favourite  food  for  their 
young  ones,  admiring  their  wonderful  adaptation  to 
their  life  and  environment.  And  now  my  attention  is 
particularly  attracted  to  them  by  a  peculiar  circum- 
stance. A  number  of  sparrows  have  clustered  on  a 
branch  of  a  high  sycamore  tree  almost  overhanging 
the  chimney,  and  there  they  flutter  and  twitter  in  a 
most. 'busybody  style,  as  though  they  had  some  very 
important  business  on  their  minds.  They  have  evi- 
dently something  extraordinary  on  hand.  Now  I 
notice  that  whenever  the  swallows  wish  to  enter  into 
their  nests  the  sparrows  try  to  bar  the  way.  I  watch, 


2O 


My  Garden  Summer- Seat. 


interested  and  curious.  Yes,  there  is  no  doubt  about 
it,  the  sparrows  wish  to  possess  themselves  of  the 
swallows'  nests,  and  to  drive  them  away.  Most 
pugnacious  and  interfering  of  birds  are  the  sparrows, 


with  no  notion  of  losing  any  chance,  however  small, 
of  furthering  their  own  interests ;  and,  if  I  am  not 
mistaken,  they  know  the  secret  of  union,  if  they 
have  never  read  ^Esop's  fable  of  the  Bundle  of  Sticks. 
At  last,  after  some  time,  and  many  ineffectual  and 


A   Siege.  21 

scattered  forays,  there  is  a  concerted  attack,  and  a  great 
noise  and  fluttering.  So  interested  am  I,  as  several 
of  the  swallows  have  disappeared,  that  I  rise  to  go 
into  the  house.  I  find  two  of  the  martins  have  been 
thrown  down  the  chimney,  and,  on  my  appearance, 
dash  themselves  against  the  windows  in  what  has  been 
for  some  time  a  disused  kitchen  to  which  the  chimney 
belongs  in  which  the  nests  are.  I  catch  first  one  and 
then  the  other,  and  let  them  free,  when  they  dash 
right  away  from  the  house  to  the  westward.  Pretty 
little  things :  more  than  ever,  as  I  handled  them,  did 
I  realise  the  perfection  of  their  form  for  their  purpose. 
In  the  best  sense  they  are  clipper-built,  and  their 
wings  are  wonderful  at  once  for  strength  and  lightness 
— nerve  and  muscle  are  there  in  their  finest  quality. 
When  I  touched  them  they  gave  out  a  peculiar  hissing 
sound,  probably  involuntarily. 

On  going  back  to  my  point  of  observation  the 
sparrows  are  in  possession,  and  every  now  and  then 
one  or  another  comes  out  and  sits  on  the  ledge,  like 
a  kind  of  sentinel,  to  give  quick  hint,  I  suppose,  if 
the  erewhile  possessors,  now  the  intruders,  make  any 
show  of  returning.  What  a  little  parable  of  wars  and 
sieges  I  have  witnessed  there  this  morning.  Now,  I 
can  believe  almost  anything  of  the  sparrows.  It  is 
the  middle  of  August.  I  have  paid  some  attention 
to  their  proceedings  during  the  spring  and  summer. 
They  built  under  the  eaves  of  stables,  outhouses, 
and  elsewhere,  in  covered  situations,  in  February  and 
March,  and  reared  broods  there.  Then,  in  May  and 
June,  they  betook  themselves  to  the  trees,  more  par- 
ticularly the  lime  trees  in  front  of  the  house,  being 
high,  carrying  off  from  the  nests  in  the  eaves  straws 
and  other  light  bits  of  material,  and  also,  when  it 


22  My  Garden  Summer-Seat. 

served  their  purpose,  making  very  free  with  the  thatch 
on  some  of  the  outhouses  for  the  same  end.  A  second 
brood  was  hatched  in  the  end  of  June  or  beginning  of 
July.  Now,  is  it  possible  that  Mr.  Sparrow  wants  a 
ready-made  nest  for  a  third  brood,  feeling  that  he  does 
not  have  time  to  build  one  for  himself  in  a  situation 
that  would  be  sufficiently  protected  in  the  cold  nights 
and  mornings  of  later  August  and  September,  and 
deems  that  he  may  safely  make  the  swallows  victim, 
as  all  is  fair  in  love  and  war  ? — that  is  the  only  infer- 
ence I  can  draw  from  what  I  have  seen  to-day  from 
my  garden-seat.  No  wonder  the  sparrows  increase 
in  spite  of  all  the  efforts  to  keep  them  down  ;  no 
wonder  that  in  the  United  States  of  America  they 
have  had  to  declare  war  against  them  by  special  enact- 
ment, branding  that  man  as  an  enemy  of  his  country 
who  will  feed  or  harbour  them  in  any  way.  They  are 
most  pugnacious  when  anything  arises  affecting  their 
rights  or  self-interests  on  the  part  of  other  birds,  and 
understand  thoroughly  the  principle  of  trades  unions, 
and  work  it  out  practically.  I  have  seen  two  sparrows 
on  my  lawn  attack  a  blackbird  who  had  just  managed 
to  get  out  of  the  hard  earth  a  considerable  worm,  and 
so  systematically  pursue  the  attack  that  the  blackbird 
was  routed,  and  had  to  leave  his  prize  to  be  carried 
off  and  enjoyed  by  others.  They  are  the  "  streeties  " 
or  gamins  of  the  bird  world,  these  sparrows,  with 
little  time  or  care  for  sentiment  or  song  beyond  a  few 
notes  of  call,  sweet  in  their  way,  and  all  bent  on  the 
practical  demands  of  life. 

I  have  heard  no  end  of  tales  of  temporarily  disused 
chimneys  in  country  houses  having  been  utilised  by 
the  swallows  and  the  sparrows  till  the  aperture  for  the 
ascent  of  the  smoke  was  quite  closed  up,  and  then, 


" Birds  and  Birds" 


25 


when  the  fire  was  lit,  there  was  a  fine  to-do.  "  Smoked 
out  "  threatened  to  be  the  result  till  some  one  ventured 
upon  the  roof  to  clear  the  chimney  ;  and  the  excitement 
caused  by  the  affair  would  set  a  whole  village  astir. 

"  There  are  birds  and  birds/'  says  a  reliable  writer. 
"  Of  rooks  and  sparrows  we  have  a  surplus,  and  the 
latter  promise  to  exterminate  the  useful,  insect-eating 
martins  by  burglariously  entering  their  nests  and  ap- 
propriating them  for  their  own  breeding  purposes — a 
most  objectionable  proceeding,  which  I  am  under  the 
impression  has  only  taken  place  within  the  last  twelve 
or  fifteen  years." 

I  have  many  neighbours  who  belong  to  the  robin 
and  wren  families,  who,  indeed,  are  so  familiar  that 
they  have  both,  for 
some  years  past, 
built  in  the  hedge 
here,  quite  near  to 
this  seat.  The  wren 
is  at  some  trouble 
to  disguise  the  nest 
with  leaves,  the  same 
as  those  on  the 
hedge;  and,  besides 
his  artistic  power  in 
making  a  beautiful, 
soft,  feathery  interior,  has  indeed  quite  a  wonderful 
art  in  varying  the  outward  effect  according  to  circum- 
stances. In  an  old  tree  the  nest  is  made  to  look 
exactly  like  a  handful  of  dry  leaves  fixed  there  by  the 
wind ;  in  the  ivy  the  nest  has  an  ivy  cover ;  while 
near  to  thatch  it  looks  exactly  like  dry  grass.  The 
wren  lays  seven  or  eight  eggs,  and  frequently  rears  a 
second  brood  in  the  season — a  most  nimble,  hearty, 


WREN. 


26  My  Garden  Summer-Seat. 


and  sweet- voiced  little  fellow.  His  song  is  at  once 
spontaneous  and  musical,  gushing,  tender,  hurried  in 
parts,  but  very  clear,  penetrating,  full  of  trills  and 
surprises,  if  you  listen  well. 

The  robins  are  less  particular,  and  do  not  trouble 
themselves,  beyond,  sometimes,  a  loose  screen  of 
leaves  ;  perhaps  they  know  that  they  enjoy  a  grand 
immunity  in  the  superstitious  fear  of  destroying  their 
nests  or  eggs,  which  is  so  widespread.  And  they 
well  reward  the  immunity  they  enjoy.  Just  when 


ROBIN    BUILDING. 


most  other  birds  get  silent  in  the  twilight,  the  robin 
pours  forth  his  finest  ditty,  rapid  here  and  there,  as 
if  he  feared  he  would  not  have  time  to  sing  all  he 
wanted,  and  finish  off  properly,  then,  recovering,  he 
melts  into  the  mellowest  tones,  and  again  becomes 
bright,  clear,  and  piercing. 

But  most  attractive  of  all  to  me  for  appearance  is 
the  beautiful  blue-tit,  which  has  established  a  family 
here,  and  often  passes  me  like  a  winged  bit  of  sky. 


The  Blue   Tit.  27 


He  is  a  most  innocent  and  careful  bird,  doing  not  a 
little  service  in  picking  the  minute  insects  off  the  buds 
and  leaves  of  certain  fruit  trees.  And  if  he  has  a 
wonderful  tongue  for  something  else  than  singing,  what 
an  eye  he  must  have,  also,  to  be  sure  ? 

The  blue-tit  is  very  fond  of  fat ;  and  if  a  lump  of 
suet  or  talJow,  or  a  greasy  bone,  is  hung  from  the 
branch  of  a  tree  not  far  off,  you  will  be  surprised  at 
the  quickness  with  which  the  blue-tits  will  find  it  out ; 
and  you  will  be  forced  to  admire  the  nimbleness  with 
which  these  birds  will  fix  upon  it,  swing  round  with 
it,  and  speedily  eat  off  the  bulk  of  what  is  in  their 
view  tasty  viands,  all  the  time  performing  the  most 
graceful  evolutions  for  your  delight.  Any  one  who  has 
not  witnessed  this  sight  cannot  be  said  to  have  seen 
the  blue-tit  in  his  glory.  Another  peculiar  habit  of 
the  blue-tit  is,  that,  like  the  woodpeckers,  it  either 
finds,  or  by  great  industry,  excavates  a  hole  in  a  tree, 
and  is  most  methodic  and  careful  in  carrying  away 
any  chips  that  may  have  been  produced  and  dropped 
to  the  ground,  so  that  this  hint,  at  any  rate,  to  the 
position  of  the  nest  might  not  be  given  to  any  ill- 
disposed  bird  or  person.  Cunning  little  tomtit ! 

Now  and  then  a  bullfinch  pays  me  a  visit.  See, 
there  he  goes — I  must  be  careful  not  to  startle  him — 
with  his  fair  fawn  breast  and  his  dark  velvety  back, 
and  his  occasional  sweet  note,  which  he  is  somewhat 
careful  not  to  indulge  just  now,  whether  from  fear  of 
attracting  notice  or  for  other  reasons.  He  is  so  much 
hunted  as  an  eater  of  fruit-buds  in  the  spring  that 
every  man's  hand  is  against  him  here,  and  he  is  very 
seldom  to  be  seen.  He  is  specially  fond  of  the  plum 
and  cherry,  and  when  these  are  in  bud,  Mr.  Bullfinch 
won't  taste  the  buds  of  their  wild  congeners  in  the 


28 


My  Garden  Summer-Seat. 


hedgerow.  And  yet  he  is  so  fond  of  insects,  of  which 
he  is  in  search  at  present  in  that  apple  tree,  that  I 
am  not  sure  if  he  does  not  present  an  illustration 
of  a  degenerate  taste.  Primarily,  no  doubt,  he  took 
only  those  buds  which  were  already  doomed  by  the 
presence  of  a  minute  grub ;  but  gradually,  as  food  in 
some  seasons  was  scarce,  he  came  to  form  a  liking 
for  the  bud  itself  (are  not  all  artificial  tastes,  indeed, 
formed  in  this  very  way  ?),  and  so  has  gone  on  ever 
since,  and  has  become  the  victim  of  a  depraved  appe- 
tite. He  is  so  pretty,  and  bright,  and  sweet  in  voice, 
though  by  no  means  a  rich  or  connected  singer,  if  with 
a  latent  gift  for  mimicry  that  may  be  highly  developed 
(the  beauty,  par  excellence,  for  me  among  the  finches), 
that  I  really  would  not  like  to  believe  all  I  hear  of  him, 
any  more  than  of  my  next-door  neighbour. 

The   shy,   retiring,   hawthorn-loving   hawfinch,   too, 

I  sometimes  see, 
and  now  and  then 
a  greenfinch  will 
visit  me  for  some  of 
my  wilding  seeds, 
and,  occasionally,  the 
now,  alas  !  too  rare 
and  beautiful  gold- 
finch steals  in  fur- 
tively to  taste,  and 
flutter  afterwards  in 
the  thistles. 

With  thrushes  and  blackbirds  my  garden  is  literally 
overrun ;  they  build  in  the  ivy  and  in  the  taller  trees, 
and,  as  they  are  not  frightened  off,  come  from  a  dis- 
tance ;  and,  bold  and  destructive  though  they  are,  I  do 
not  have  the  heart  to  destroy  them  :  only  they  cost 


GREEN   LINNET. 


Blackbird  and  Starling. 


29 


v- 


BLACKBIRD. 


me  annually  nearly  the  worth  of  my  finer  fruit,  for 
netting  and  wire  to  keep  them  off.  But  I  can  buy  fruit  or 
beg  it  from  my  more 
practical-  minded 
neighbours ;  but  no 
money  could  buy 
that  mellow,  mellow 
song,  as  if  blown 
through  fine  golden 
tubes,  which  indeed 
it  is,  that  the  black- 
bird gives  me  from 
a  branch  of  that  tall 
tree  in  the  gloaming. 

Starlings,  too,  of  a  very  bold  build,  constantly  look 
in  on  me.  See !  there  one  goes,  dodging  through 
between  those  cab- 
bages; he  may  find 
a  slug  or  two,  but 
that  was  not  all  that 
he  came  here  for, 
I'm  pretty  certain. 
The  idea  that  star- 
lings do  not  eat 
fruit  is  disproved 
by  my  cherry  trees. 
How  smooth  and 
shiny  his  coat  is, 
and  how  beautifully  marked  with  gayest  colours,  and 
with  what  a  quick  eye  he  detects  the  presence  of  any- 
thing that  is  to  his  taste. 

Over  yonder  is  a  pyramid  Mayduke  cherry  tree, 
rising,  as  you  can  see,  above  the  graceful  feathery 
plumes  of  the  asparagus,  on  which  already  the  delicate 


STARLING. 


30  My  Garden  Summer-Seat. 


scarlet  berries  begin  to  appear,  to  make  a  brave  show 
in  later  September  and  October ;  and  to  that  is  linked 
an  anecdote,  which  makes  the  fruit  ravages  of  the  star- 
lings more  present  to  me  than  would  otherwise  be  the 
case,  and  which  at  the  same  time  throws  some  light  at 
once  on  the  stolidity  and  the  lazy  observant  curiosity 
of  a  certain  class  of  youthful  rustic.  At  that  time  I 
employed  a  youth  of  thirteen  or  fourteen  to  do  odd 
jobs  in  the  garden,  &c.;  and  one  day,  on  coming  out 
and  going  up  to  him,  as  he  stood  gazing  and  gaping  at 
something  or  other  across  the  lawn,  and  asking  the 
reason  of  his  expression  and  attitude,  I  got  this  very 
characteristic  reply: — "Well,  maister,  I  was  just  a- 
lookin'  at  the  starlin'  on  that  ere  cherry  tree,  he  do  be 
a  picken'  off  they  cherries  somethin'  wonderful " — the 
wonderfulness  of  the  starling's,  power  to  pick  off  the 
cherries  having  so  impressed  the  lout  that  he  was  dis- 
inclined to  take  the  trouble  to  drive  it  off.  I  at  once 
went  and  did  this  myself,  and  had  the  tree  netted,  as  it 
was  small,  though  a  splendid  fruiter.  But  this  did  not 
prevent  the  starlings  returning  and  making  many  efforts 
to  pick  the  fruit  through  the  netting,  and  one  of  the 
birds  was  caught  by  the  feet  in  the  net  and  suffered 
the  penalties  of  his  audacity.  I  have  not  since  shortly 
after  that  event  had  any  boys  in  my  garden,  believing, 
with  one  of  my  old,  shrewd,  experienced,  observant, 
farmer  friends,  that  "  one  boy  is  a  third  a  man,  two 
boys  a  sixth  a  man,  and  three  boys  no  man  at  all." 

But,  notwithstanding  all  this,  the  starling  is  one  of 
the  most  delightful  of  birds.  It  is  animated,  clever, 
full  of  resource,  and  is  capable  of  being  domesticated 
and  taught  no  end  of  things.  Some  of  the  class  have 
been  found  able  to  say  certain  words  more  or  less  dis- 
tinctly; and  on  this  fact  Dr.  Norman  Macleod  founded 


The  Starlings  Suit.  31 


his  tale  of  "  The  Starling."  The  bird  of  that  tale  was 
able  to  say,  "I'm  Charlie's  bairn;"  and  as  he  would 
do  so  on  the  Sawbath  day,  and  thus  attract  the  atten- 
tion of  the  youngsters  on  their  way  to  church,  Mr. 
Porteous,  the  minister,  severe  with  all  the  severity  of 
the  Scotch  Calvinism  of  half  a  century  ago,  insisted  on 
the  poor  sergeant  putting  away  the  bird.  This  the 
sergeant  would  not  do,  because  the  starling  was  asso- 
ciated in  his  memory  with  a  dead  child,  and  the  manner 
in  which  Mr.  Porteous  was  brought  round  and  even 
reconciled  both  to  the  starling  and  to  the  sergeant  is 
very  touching,  and  well  shows  the  strength  of  Dr. 
Macleod  as  a  story-teller  of  the  simple,  mixed  humorous, 
and  pathetic  kind.  Mr.  Robert  Buchanan,  too,  has  used 
the  starling  in  a  very  effective  poem,  in  which  a  little 
drunken,  swearing  tailor  has  a  chorus  in  his  only  friend, 
a  starling.  Sterne's  starling  everyone  remembers. 

The  cleverness  of  the  starling,  together  with  a  touch 
of  diablerie  in  some  of  its  looks  and  expressions,  make 
it  very  susceptible  of  treatment  in  this  way.  It  is  a 
most  striking  bird  in  appearance,  too,  when  you  see  it 
in  freedom.  You  would  fancy  it  is  black,  with,  at 
certain  seasons,  a  touch  of  buff  on  the  wings,  and  other 
markings  here  and  there ;  but  it  really  is  predominantly 
a  mixture  of  very  dark  green  and  purple  and  steel- 
blue,  as  you  would  realise  if  you  had  ever  seen  a 
starling  go  smartly  over  a  hedge  to  escape  from  you  in 
the  sunlight.  There  then  is  a  flash  of  indescribable 
dark  colour,  like  the  hidden  hues  of  a  black  opal,  which 
the  strong  light  only  reveals.  It  is  best  seen  on  the 
bird  when  flying  between  you  and  the  light. 

It  has  been  well  said  that,  in  the  fields  at  a  distance, 
the  starling  looks  as  if  he  dressed  in  the  blackbird's 
old  clothes ;  but  the  writer  goes  on  to  add  that  this  is  a 


32  My  Garden  Summer-Seat. 

false  impression,  "  for  not  distance  but  nearness  lends 
enchantment  to  a  view  of  the  starling.  Even  as  he 
stands  for  a  moment  in  the  sunshine  on  the  chimney, 
you  can  mark  much  of  the  brilliancy  of  his  dress  as 
the  beautiful  metallic  green  of  his  dark  plumage  gleams 
in  the  sun  and  flashes  purple  every  now  and  then  as 
it  catches  the  light  from  a  different  angle.  He  is  too 
far  off  for  us  to  notice  the  harmony  of  his  spot-mark- 
ings ;  they  cannot  be  seen  to  any  effect  at  a  distance, 
but  nearer  they  greatly  enhance  his  beauty.  Add  to 
his  other  points  the  brown  wing  feathers  with  shiny 
black  margins,  and  his  bill,  at  this  season  (the  breeding 
season)  a  bright  lemon  yellow,  like  that  of  a  cock 
blackbird,  and  you  have  altogether  a  singularly  hand- 
some bird." 

It  has  often  been  said  that  the  more  virtuous  the 
birds  the  less  beautiful  they  are.  Those  that  mate 
year  by  year,  and  are,  under  some  rule  of  "natural 
selection,"  led  to  assume  bright  colours  to  attract  the 
females,  thus  gain  their  gay  appearance  as  a  lady-killer 
affects  fine  dress ;  but  the  starling  mates  for  life,  and 
yet  he  is  beautiful  and  most  beautiful  during  the 
breeding  season,  as  though,  so  far  as  he  could,  he 
would  form  an  exception  to  the  rule,  and  prove  that 
nature  sometimes  gives  a  touch  of  loveliness  to  the 
well-behaved  and  true  and  faithful. 

The  author  of  the  article  on  the  starling  in  the 
"  Encyclopaedia  Britannica"  says,  "  The  worst  that 
can  be  said  of  it  (the  starling)  is,  that  it  occasionally 
pilfers  fruit,  and  as  it  flocks  to  roost  in  autumn  and 
winter  among  reed- beds,  does  considerable  damage  by 
breaking  down  the  stems."  Yarrell,  in  his  "  British 
Birds,"  speaks  precisely  to  the  same  effect. 

The  truth  is,  with  a  very  large  number  of  birds,  one 


Seed- Eaters  and  Flesh-Eaters.  33 

can  see  how  they  have  been  corrupted  from  insect- 
feeders  or  seed-eaters  to  fruit-eaters.  This  process 
proceeds  along  one  or  other  of  two  lines,  (i.)  Either 
they  have  been  led  to  taste  fruit  from  finding  the  in- 
sects in  it  or  upon  it,  and  having  once  tasted  it,  they 
become  fond  of  it,  form,  in  fact,  an  artificial  taste,  as 
we  have  found  in  the  case  of  the  bullfinch.  (2.)  As 
eaters  of  the  seeds  of  natural  plants,  say,  the  wild 
strawberry,  which  has  practically  no  pulp,  birds  per- 
formed in  earlier  days,  before  extended  cultivation,  a 
great  service  in  the  dissemination  of  the  seeds  they 
had  eaten  and  passed  through  them,  carrying  them 
away  and  re-sowing  them  in  places  very  distant.  But 
when  man's  skill  develops  the  pulp — which,  in  the  wild 
state,  is  merely  enough  to  protect  the  seeds — to  such 
an  extent  that  the  fruit  is  practically  all  pulp  and  no 
seeds,  then  the  birds  follow  his  lead,  and  form  a  love 
for  the  pulp,  which  nature  by  itself  never  would,  and 
never  could,  have  provided  for  them.  Thus  it  may 
be  said  that  the  process  of  fruit  development  is  the 
corruption  of  the  birds  from  insect-feeders,  or  mere 
seed-eaters,  to  devourers  of  soft  pulp ;  and  the  trans- 
formation proceeds  in  such  a  way  that  you  are  hardly 
ever  safe  to  say  that  a  bird  has  not  in  some  degree 
formed  this  depraved  artificial  taste  by  which  he  at 
once,  as  far  as  he  can,  apes  man  and  robs  him.  Human 
conduct,  enterprise,  and  example  are  thus  responsible 
for  effects  far  beyond  the  merely  human  circle — beyond 
even  the  circle  which  he  influences  by  domestication  and 
direct  application.  Analogous  cases  of  artificial  tastes 
formed  by  changes  of  habit  on  animals  under  man's  in- 
fluence are  hundredfold.  Here  is  one:  "The  baboons 
at  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope  have  always  devoured 
scorpions,  but  they  have  lately  taken  to  killing  and 


34  My  Garden  Slimmer -Seat. 

eating  young  lambs ;  in  the  commencement  they  killed 
the  lambs  for  the  sake  of  the  milk  in  their  stomachs, 
but  they  appear  now  to  have  acquired  a  taste  for  meat, 
and  devour  the  flesh  of  their  victims."  * 

A  more  extraordinary  case  still  is  that  of  the  New 
Zealand  lory  or  kea,  which  from  a  strict  vegetarian  has 
become  a  voracious  flesh-eater,  and  this  entirely  since 
the  colonists  appeared  in  New  Zealand.  Prior  to  this 
the  kea,  like  the  cuckatoos  and  macaws,  was  a  mild- 
mannered,  fruit-eating,  or  honey-sucking  bird.  But 
"  as  soon  as  sheep-stations  were  established  in  the 
island,  these  degenerate  parrots  began  to  acquire  a 
distinct  taste  for  raw  mutton.  At  first,  to  be  sure, 
they  ate  only  the  sheeps'  heads  and  offal  that  were 
thrown  out  from  the  slaughter-houses,  picking  the 
bones  as  clean  of  meat  as  a  dog  or  a  jackal.  But  in 
process  of  time,  as  the  taste  for  blood  grew  upon  them, 
a  still  viler  idea  entered  into  their  wicked  heads.  The 
first  step  on  the  downward  path  suggested  the  second. 
If  dead  sheep  are  good  to  eat,  why  not  also  living  ones  ? 
The  kea,  pondering  deeply  on  this  abstruse  problem, 
solved  it  at  once  with  an  emphatic  affirmative.  And 
he  straightway  proceeded  to  act  upon  his  convictions, 
and  invent  a  really  hideous  mode  of  procedure.  Perch- 
ing on  the  backs  of  the  living  sheep,  he  has  now  learnt 
the  exact  spot  where  the  kidneys  are  to  be  found ;  and 
he  tears  open  the  flesh  to  get  at  these  dainty  morsels, 
which  he  pulls  out  and  devours,  leaving  the  unhappy 
animal  to  die  in  miserable  agony.  As  many  as  two 
hundred  ewes  have  thus  been  killed  in  a  night  at  a 
single  station.  I  need  hardly  add  that  the  sheep- 
farmer  naturally  resents  this  irregular  proceeding,  so 
opposed  to  all  ideals  of  good  grazing,  and  that  the  days 

*  A.  W.  Buckland's  "Anthropology,"  p.  42. 


Eyes  of  Birds.  35 

of  the  kea  are  now  numbered  in  New  Zealand.  But 
from  the  purely  ps3'chological  point  of  view  the  case  is 
an  interesting  one,  as  being  the  best  recorded  instance 
of  the  growth  of  a  new  and  complex  instinct  actually 
under  the  eyes  of  human  observers." 

So  fruit-eating,  in  the  sense  I  mean  here,  is  entirely 
an  acquired  taste,  and  more  and  more  the  birds  learn 
it.  The  sparrow  and  the  bullfinch,  no  doubt  at  first 
cleared  the  gooseberry  bushes  from  small  grubs  or 
insects  in  the  spring,  but  they  could  not  help  now  and 
then  getting  a  taste  of  the  eye-buds  as  they  picked  the 
insects  out,  and  came  to  form  a  taste  for  the  buds 
themselves,  which  now  they  so  ravenously  devour,  that 
in  some  parts  covering  the  bushes  with  black  threads, 
crossed  from  point  to  point,  is  the  only  protection. 
The  birds  do  not  see  these  till  they  dash  against  them 
and  are  frightened.  So  I  believe  that  the  starlings 
have  become  corrupted,  or  are  in  gradual  process  of 
being  so. 

In  a  later  page  we  shall  see  how  the  rook  bears  the 
blame  of  grain-eating  when  he  only  picks  out,  at  a 
certain  stage,  the  grains  which  have  become  the  dwell- 
ing-places of  the  intrusive  wire- worm;  but  it  is  possible 
enough  that  if  insect-food  became  very  scarce  through 
one  reason  or  another,  the  rook  might  resort  to  grain- 
eating  alone. 

And  this  suggests  a  word  or  two  about  the  eyes  of 
birds,  which  are  indeed  wonderful  in  their  adaptation 
to  be  used  alternately  as  a  telescope  and  a  microscope. 
We  speak  of  a  birds-eye  view,  and  that  is  expressive 
enough,  but  it  hints  only  at  one-half  the  wonder.  The 
birds  can  see  far,  but  they  can  also  see  near.  In  some 
cases  the  focal  distance  is  remarkably  short,  being  no 
more  than  the  length  of  the  bird's  bill,  whereas  in  the 


My  Garden  Summer- Seat. 


normal  human  eye  it  is  about  seven  or  eight  inches.  To 
the  birds  in  some  cases  objects  are  magnified  in  com- 
parison to  the  human  eye  as  much  as  2000  times. 
The  tits  are  in  this  respect  the  most  noticeable  of  our 

birds,  and  the  beautiful 
artistic  nest  -  building 
long-tailed  or  bottle  tit  the 
most  remarkable  of  all. 
To  realise  his  microscopic 
power  of  eye,  we  must 
regard  every  object  that 
comes  fully  within  his 
field  of  vision  as  appear- 
ing to  him  about  20OO 
times  the  size  that  it  is 
to  the  normal  human 
eye.  The  blue  tits  and 
LONGTAILEU  TIT.  cole-tits  come  next,  and 

then  the  wrens  and  wry- 
necks, and  then,  at  a  considerable  interval,  the  wood- 
peckers. In  consequence  of  this  wonderful  magnifying 
power,  an  insect  a  quarter  of  an  inch  long  will  appear 
as  large  to  the  eye  of  the  longtailed  tit  as  the  common 
mouse  does  to  the  eye  of  man,  when  held  as  near  as  it 
can  be  seen. 

We  need  not  therefore  wonder  at  the  ability  of  the 
little  birds  to  clear  off  almost  microscopic  insect  larvae, 
and  to  peck  up  crumbs  that  are  to  our  vision  scarcely 
more  than  dust.  What  a  peculiar  subject  it  would  be 
to  represent  the  various  objects  as  they  appear  to  a 
long-tailed  tit's  eye !  Think  of  man  how,  when  close 
to  the  bird,  he  must  stride  a  colossus  in  very  truth  ; 
and  how  ominous  an  aspect  a  dog  or  cat  must  bear — 
the  latter  a  seeming  tiger  to  the  little  bird.  And  the 


Wood-Pigeons.  3  7 


facility  with  which  birds  can  change  the  eye  from 
microscopic  to  telescopic  is  proved  by  the  fact  that, 
while  the  tit  is  feeding  on  the  eggs  of  flies  on  this  tree 
(which  eggs  must  appear  as  large  to  him  as  musket 
bullets  do  to  us),  he  feels  no  difficulty  in  seeing  that 
whinbush  at  the  distance  of  more  than  two  hundred 
yards. 

A  few  wood-pigeons  will  sometimes  pay  me  a  visit 
in  the  early  morning,  tempted  by  some  choice  straw- 
berries, of  which,  like  other  congeners  of  theirs,  they 
are  very  fond.  There,  they  are  off,  with  a  whirr  up- 
wards high,  and  glance  of  light  from  their  rapid  wings, 
a  slight  movement  of  mine  having  scared  them.  They 
are  far  more  timid  than  blackbirds,  and  thrushes  or 
starlings,  whose  boldness  and  impudence  are  equal  to 
their  cleverness  and  ingenuity.  The  wood-pigeon 
depends  more  on  his  shyness,  and  swiftness,  and 
caution,  than  on  his  boldness,  or  impudence,  or  in- 
genuity. He  is  a  beautiful  bird,  and  his  shyness  is 
seen  in  the  fact  that  he  chooses  the  darkest  corner  of 
the  wood  he  can  find  for  his  nest,  and  then  is  so 
impatient,  or  so  incapable  a  nest-builder,  that  in  the 
gloom  his  white  eggs,  exposed  through  twigs  carelessly 
criss-crossed,  will  betray  him.  I  have  sometimes  seen 
as  many  as  five  here  shortly  after  daylight  in  search  of 
gooseberries  (for  which,  too,  they  have  a  passionate 
liking),  cherries,  peas,  or  lettuce,  of  which  they  will 
take  an  occasional  refresher.  But  they  may  take  a 
taste  of  some  of  my  weedy  wildings  too,  for  they  are 
very  fond  of  wild  mustard  and  ragweed,  and  often  do 
good  service  to  the  farmer  in  clearing  them  from  his 
fields,  when  he  believes  that  they  are  only  eating  his 
corn,  or  wheat,  or  turnips.  But  they  prefer  the  weeds 
to  them  any  day,  else  from  their  wonderful  voracity 


My  Garden  Summer- Seat. 


they  would  rank  as  most  dangerous  enemies  of  the 
agriculturist.  They  are  keen,  however,  at  certain 
seasons  for  some  kinds  of  turnip-tops  and  also  of  turnips, 
which,  if  holes  have  already  been  made  through  the 
rough  outside  skin  by  rabbit  or  hare,  they  will  almost 
entirely  scoop  out.  The  thought  of  this  rouses  the 
farmer's  ire,  which  is  not  easily  allayed. 

They   are    fond    of  beech-nuts,    and    will   go   long 


SENTINEL   WOODPIGEON. 


distances  to  get  them,  and  some  observers  say  that, 
like  rooks  and  pheasants,  they  will  gorge  themselves 
with  acorns,  and  that  the  art  they  show,  soft-billed 
though  they  are,  in  detaching  the  nut  from  the  cup, 
and  splitting  the  core,  is  astonishing.  They  will  set 
the  acorn  in  position,  and  strike  it  with  their  bills  with 
the  utmost  precision. 

It  seems  to  me  that  they  show  traces  of  a  conscience, 


Odd  Places  for  Building.  39 

whether  generated  simply  by  fear  and  former  experi- 
ence (as  the  Evolutionists  would  say)  I  cannot  pretend 
to  know.  When  feeding  in  flocks  in  the  fields  among 
the  grain  or  roots,  they  never  forget  to  post  a  sentinel 
or  two,  and  a  settled,  regulated  method  of  interchange 
of  position,  which  I  had  observed  in  my  early  morning 
walks  before  I  had  been  fortunate  enough  to  alight  on 
this  most  faithful  observation  in  the  fascinating  pages 
of  the  late  Charles  St.  John. 

"  It  is  amusing  to  watch  a  large  flock  of  these  birds 
while  searching  the  ground  for  grain.  They  walk  in  a 
compact  body,  and  in  order  that  all  may  fare  alike,  the 
hindmost  rank  every  now  and  then  fly  over  the  heads 
of  their  companions  to  the  front,  where  they  keep  the 
best  place  for  a  minute  or  two,  till  those  now  in  the 
rear  take  their  place  in  the  same  manner.  They  keep 
up  this  kind  of  fair-play  during  the  whole  time  of 
feeding." 

In  feeding  on  acorns  in  the  woods  they  seem  to 
proceed  less  regularly,  and  are  to  be  found  more  in 
pairs. 

It  is  very  odd,  considering  ^the  shyness  and  cunning 
and  caution  of  birds,  the  whimsical  and  exposed  places 
in  which  sometimes  they  will  build.  It  would  seem  as 
though  in  some  instances  they  studiously  left  room  in 
their  choice  and  style  of  building  for  after-ingenuity 
and  resource.  A  wren  last  year  was  actually  guilty 
of  the  innocent  enormity  of  putting  her  nest  in  a  cab- 
bage plant  left  for  seed  right  over  in  that  corner.  Not- 
withstanding the  presence  of  this  seat,  which,  as  I  am 
often  here,  one  would  have  fancied  would  have  scared 
off  the  birds,  there  are  many  nests  quite  close  to  it. 
At  my  right  hand,  almost  overhead,  in  the  ivy  over- 
hanging the  old  wall,  there  is  a  nest  of  blue  tits,  and 


My  Garden  Summer- Seat. 


BLUE   TIT. 


oh  !  the  whispering  and  signalling  that  goes  on  if  I  give 
any  sign  of  consciously  watching  their  performances. 

They  are  now  quite 
at  their  ease,  unless 
I  stand  on  tiptoe 
in  the  endeavour 
to  look  into  their 
nest,  and  then 
the  whispers  and 
chatter  begin.  But 
how  cunning  they 
are !  Being  thus 
often  observed,  and 
desirous  of  hiding 
their  nest  as  much  as  they  may,  they  have  constructed 
or  placed  it  so  that  they  can  enter  it  both  from  above 
and  below ;  and  when  I  am  watching,  how  they  dodge 
and  dip  and  enter  it  either  way. 

A  chaffinch  last  year  built  in  the  corner  of  a  disused 
frame,  which  had  become  a  receptacle  for  empty  flower- 
pots,^., and  reared 
a  brood  in  spite  of 
the  gardener's  con- 
stant going  about 
the  frame.  The 
chaffinch  is  not  al- 
ways so  easily  sat- 
isfied. Do  you  see 
that  old  apple  tree 
there  just  beyond 
that  cherry  tree 
and  next  to  the 

plum  ?    Well,  just  in  the  little  hole  where  the  branches 
part  from  the  bole  a  chaffinch  has  had  its  nest  for  three 


The  Chaffinch. 


years  past.  It  is  so  low  that  by  standing  on  tiptoe 
you  could  almost  put  your  hand  into  it ;  but  they  have 
so  wonderfully  lichened  it  over  to  an  exact  resemblance 
with  the  bark  of  the  tree  that  it  would  be  a  very  quick 
eye  indeed  that  would  notice  it,  unless  it  followed  the 
bird  returning — a  beautiful  illustration  of  what  is  now 
called  the  protective  instinct  which  nature  has  so 
strongly  bestowed  on  many  of  her  children.  The 
chaffinch  is  in  some  ways  a  very  noticeable  bird ;  it 
is  indeed  almost  the  only  one  of  the  small  birds  which 
pairs  for  life,  and  it  has  been  said  that  it  learns  its 
song  anew  each  spring.  If  this  is  so,  the  chaffinch  soon 
regains  his  mastery.  He  is  in  many  ways  a  meister- 
singer  among  birds.  He  is  never  failing.  He  begins 
with  a  lovely  lilt,  as  it  were ;  a  passage  of  old  song, 
blithe  and  debonnair,  passes  into  the  softest  warble, 
and  after  some  mixed  flourishes,  with  the  finest  sense 
of  contrast  in  them,  closes  with  a  sudden  abrupt  kind 
of  clash  of  notes.  Mr.  Waterton  wrote  thus  well  of 
the  chaffinch,  and  expresses  the  thought  of  many  a 
bird  lover : — 

"Next  to  poor  cock  robin,  the  chaffinch  is  my 
favourite  bird.  I  see  him  almost  at  every  step.  He 
is  in  the  fruit  and  forest  trees  and  in  the  lowly  haw- 
thorn; he  is  on  the  house-top  and  on  the  ground 
close  to  your  feet.  You  may  observe  him  on  the 
stack-bar  and  on  the  dunghill,  on  the  king's  highway, 
in  the  fallow  field,  in  the  meadow,  in  the  pasture,  and 
by  the  margin  of  the  stream.  His  nest  is  a  paragon  of 
perfection.  He  attaches  lichen  to  the  outside  of  it 
by  mean,s  of  the  spider's  slender  web.  In  the  year 
1805,  when  I  was  on  a  plantation  in  Guiana,  I  saw 
the  humming  bird  making  use  of  the  spider's  web  in  its 
nidification,  and  then  the  thought  struck  me  that  our 


My  Garden  Summer- Seat. 


chaffinch  might  probably  make  use  of  it  too.  On  my 
return  to  Europe  I  watched  a  chaffinch  busy  at  its 
nest.  It  left  it,  and  flew  to  an  old  wall  and  took  a 
cobweb  from  it,  then  conveyed  it  to  its  nest,  and  inter- 
wove it  with  the  lichen  on  the  outside  of  it." 

The   little    busy   goldcrest,    very   unlike    the   wren 
family,  to  which  he  is  related,  in  personal  appearance, 

goes  about  his 
business  in  a  care- 
ful cheerful  man- 
ner, and  at  the  hot 
hours  of  noon  in 
summer  days 
sends  out  soft 
bursts  of  song, 
when  else  silence 
would  almost  reign 
in  garden  or  wood. 
His  tiny  nest  is 
hung  on  the  end 

of  the  high  branch  of  that  cedar  tree  on  the  lawn,  and 
so  neatly  that,  looking  from  below,  you  could  hardly 
see  it,  the  feathery  ends  of  the  needles  falling  round  it. 
What  a  delight  the  bees  have  found  in  these  fox- 
gloves, which  seem  as  if  nature  constructed  them  to 
show  what  she  could  do  in  building  a  perfect  floral 
pyramid,  or  perhaps  more  properly,  floral  obelisk,  and 
to  afford  a  ceaseless  series  of  newly  unfolded  flowers 
through  a  whole  season.  Unlike  the  grand  builders  of 
the  Nile,  she  does  not  aim  at  hard  permanence  here ;  but 
she  combines  what  they  did  not  and  could  not  do,  per- 
fection of  line  and  curve,  and  ceaseless  change  in  sweet 
gradation.  They  are  now  losing  the  lower  flowers 
that  pale  off  and  shrink  away,  while  those  at  the 


GOLDCREST. 


Opposing  Instincts.  43 

top  are  spreading  out  into  a  lovely  crown  of  pinky 
purple.  The  arrangement  is  one  of  the  most  exquisite 
in  nature,  illustrating  beauty  long  drawn  out.  First, 
we  have  a  true  obelisk,  the  upper  tiers  yet  immature, 
and  small  and  darker  in  colour  altogether,  without  that 
transparency  and  luminousness  which  marked  those 
below,  but  lending  a  wonderful  grace,  poise,  and  charm 
to  the  flower  and  its  movements.  Then  tier  by  tier  in 
series,  step  by  step,  the  colour  and  charm  are  taken  up 
from  those  below,  till  at  last  all  that  remains  is  a  kind 
of  glory-crown,  over  ranges  of  seeds  :  lovely  foxgloves 

"  In  whose  drooping  bells  the  bee  makes  her  sweet  music." 

Almost  behind  me  as  I  sit  a  mass  of  firewood  has 
been  built  stack-shape  in  view  of  winter.  There  a 
discontented  barn-door  fowl  has  wandered  from  the 
others  and  from  her  proper  nest  in  the  hen-house,  and 
has  found  a  hole  in  this  stack  into  which  she  has 
managed  to  crawl,  and  has  made  a  nest  there,  and 
is  now  busy  in  laying  her  complement  of  eggs;  but 
with  the  inconsistency  of  her  kind,  in  which  apparently 
opposite  instincts  maintain  themselves  in  full  force,  she 
has  no  sooner  laid  her  egg  than  she  exultantly  informs 
all  the  world  of  her  feat,  which  she  purposed  to  keep  a 
great  secret.  Her  cluck,  cluck,  cluck,  iack !  is  shrill 
and  penetrating,  no  effort  spared.  What  purpose  can 
that  cackling  serve,  save  to  betray  the  hidden  nest  ? 
Is  the  secretive  instinct  a  faint  survival  even  from 
far-off  ancestors,  and  the  cackle  a  sort  of  vain,  self- 
conscious  something,  developed  under  domestication 
and  intercourse  with  man — as  it  is  certain  now  that 
the  bark  of  the  dog  is  ?  Wild  gallinaceous  fowls 
do  not  cackle  as  does  the  domestic  hen.  The  two 
instincts  seem  totally  opposed  to  each  other,  and  are 


44  My  Garden  Summer- Seat. 

mutually  destructive.  But  then  it  is  very  easy  to  con- 
demn the  poor  egg-layer.  What  worse  is  she  than  the 
human  weakling  who  has  a  great  secret  and  shows  that 
he  has  it,  forgetting  that  very  wise  warning  Goethe 
makes  Wilhelm  Meister  give  his  boy,  that  to  keep  a 
secret  you  must  be  careful  to  hide  that  you  have  one. 

Bees  of  all  kinds  daily  visit  me.  The  common 
humble-bee  and  sometimes  the  moss  or  carder-bee, 
the  "  foggy-toddler  "  of  Scottish  boys,  and  a  peculiarly 
long,  thin,  black  bee,  with  the  faintest  tip  of  red  on 
its  tail,  and  at  times  clouds  of  my  neighbour's  hive 
bees  mix  with  my  own — giving  evidence  that  there 
are  some  Ligurians  imported.  Last  year  they  accom- 
plished an  odd  feat.  I  had  brought  some  beans  of 
a  very  fine  kind  from  Belgium.  The  beans  are  pure 
white  and  in  long  pods  which  run  up  poles  as  high  as 
hops  or  even  higher;  not  far  off  were  some  scarlet 
runners,  of  both  of  which  the  bees  were  very  fond. 
One  half  of  the  plants  grown  from  my  pure  white 
Belgian  seed  yielded  a  cross — not  pure  white,  but 
speckled  as  if  with  the  colour  of  the  scarlet-runner 
bean — and  the  pods  were  not  nearly  so  long  and  flat 
as  in  the  Belgian  bean.  It  was  at  all  events  quite 
a  new  variety,  never  before  seen  in  the  district.  The 
wild-flowers  near  my  garden-seat  particularly  attract 
them.  By  what  secret  magnetism  is  it  that  they  know 
when  any  new  species  is  in  bloom,  and  come  simul- 
taneously to  it,  as  it  were,  from  the  four  winds  of 
heaven  ?  But,  in  spite  of  little  contretemps  of  this 
kind,  I  can  heartily  say,  with  that  sweet  American 
poetess,  Miss  Celia  Thaxter,  whose  eye  for  nature 
is  as  keen  as  her  love  for  it  is  passionate,  when  in 
her  beautiful  poem  titled  "  Guests,"  she  celebrates,  as  I 
do,  her — 


The  Sycamore,  45 


"  Quaint  little  wilderness  of  flowers,  straggling  hither  and 

thither, 
Morning  glories  tangled  about  the  larkspur  run  to  seed  ;" 

and  proceeds  to  express  her  welcome  thus : 

"  Welcome,  a  thousand  times  welcome,  ye  dear  and  delicate 

neighbours, 

Bird  and  bee  and  butterfly,  and  redbreast  fairy  fine  ! 
Proud  am  I  to  offer  you  a  field  for  your  graceful  labours  ; 
All  the  honey  and  all  the  seeds  are  yours  in  this  garden  of 

mine  ! 
I  sit  on  the  doorstep  and  watch  you.     Beyond  lies  the  infinite 

ocean, 

Sparkling,  shimmering,  whispering,  rocking  itself  to  rest, 
And  the  world  is  full  of  perfume  and  colour  and  beautiful 

motion, 
And  each  sweet  hour  of  this  new  day  the  happiest  seems  and 

best." 

I  spoke  of  the  high  branch  of  the  sycamore  tree,  but 
it  has  points  of  interest  beyond  its  being  beautiful  and 
affording  a  good  resort  for  many  birds.  If  it  does  not 
quite  match  the  chestnut — the  "  gummy  chestnut  buds  " 
of  Lord  Tennyson  * — in  the  thickness  of  the  gum  which 

*  The  verse  in  "  The  Miller's  Daughter  "  originally  stood  thus  : — 

"  Remember  you  that  pleasant  day, 

When,  after  roving  in  the  woods 

('Twas  April  then),  I  came  and  lay 

Beneath  those  gummy  chestnut-buds? " 

The  critic  of  the  Quarterly  Review,  who  noticed  the  whole  volume  in 
a  fine  strain  of  mockery  and  sarcasm,  was  especially  funny  and  quizzical 
over  the  "gummy  chestnut-buds,"  and  so  the  nice  observation  had  to 
give  place  to  more  fanciful  and  amplified  and  less  effective  phrases  in 
the  later  editions  : — 

"  But,  Alice,  what  an  hour  was  that, 

When,  after  roving  in  the  woods 

('Twas  April  then),  I  came  and  sat 

Below  the  chestnuts,  when  their  buds 
Were  glistening  to  the  breezy  blue" 

which,  by  the  way,  any  bud  with  dew  or  moisture  after  rain  would 
do.  Such  are  the  fine  ministries  of  ignorant,  cynical,  self-conceited 
"crickets,"  as  Artemus  Ward  named  them  ! 


My  Garden  Summer-Seat. 


it  extrudes  over  the  little  buds  formed  in  later  autumn, 
in  preparation  for  the  next  spring,  which  dries  and 
hardens,  and  is  a  most  efficient  protection  for  them 
against  the  frosts  and  snows,  often  glittering  like  amber 
between  you  and  the  sunset,  it  has  a  kind  of  honey 
in  which  it  encases  them  very  effectively,  through  all 
the  cold  and  frost ;  and  when  the  sun  once  more  begins 
to  look  forth  with  a  certain  heat,  this  melts  away  and 
drops  to  the  ground  in  the  most  minute  globules  like 
dew  when  the  tree  is  stirred.  Hence  the  truth  of  the 
line — 

"  The  sycamore  drops  honey  when  'tis  stirred." 

But  the  seed  of  the  tree  is  even  more  curious  and  wonder- 
ful than  the  bud.  As  I  have  sat  here  in  later  September 

and  October,  I  have 
seen  them  part  from 
the  tree  and  come  with 
a  peculiar  wavering 
kind  of  flight  on  the 
wind.  These  seeds 
are  called  samaras,  be- 
cause they  are  really 
winged,  or  perhaps 
because  the  seed  in 
its  envelope  has  a  soft 
furry,  silky  lining, 
either  from  simarre, 
a  woman's  dress  or 
scarf,  or  simarre,  a 
bishop's  upper  robe. 

SYCAMORE    TREE.  r     . 

The     wings    of    the 

samara  are  beautifully  adapted  to  float  a  heavy  body, 
which  they  do,  as  any  one  may  see,  at  the  right  season, 


The  Sycamore  Samara.  47 

when  favourable  winds  are  stirring.  They  dry  into  a 
very  light-veined  brown  skeleton  wing,  and  may  be 
seen  in  certain  spots  in  thousands  in  the  later  autumn 
and  early  winter.  The  late  Laureate,  in  the  "  In 
Memoriam,"  wonders  why  it  is  that 

"  Often  out  of  fifty  seeds 
Great  Nature  brings  but  one  to  bear." 

Multitudes  of  these  seeds  of  sycamore  perish ;  many 
are  eaten  by  cattle ;  many  are  trodden  and  destroyed. 
Doubtless,  thousands  on  thousands  perish  for  one  that 
grows  in  spite  of  nature's  wonderful  device  to  spread 
them.  And  yet  the  sycamore  asserts  how  well  nature 
can  cherish  her  children.  Wherever  there  is  a  syca- 
more, sycamore  seedlings  will  spring  up  in  profusion 
within  a  wide  area,  if  any  spaces  whatever  are  left  to 
nature  ;  it  intrudes  into  all  manner  of  hedges  and  takes 
root,  particularly  liking  the  gravel.  Nature's  economy 
and  care  of  the  type  is  hardly  in  anything  better  illus- 
trated than  in  the  sycamore  samara. 

Do  you  wonder  that  I  love  to  sit  and  read  and  muse 
and  brood  and  dream  and  observe  in  this  sheltered 
garden-seat,  with  my  wild-flowers  close  around  me,  a 
screen  of  cultivated  garden  further  off,  and  all  manner 
of  birds  and  insects  continuously  sounding  soft  accom- 
paniment ?  Yes,  even  in  days  when  I  feel  it  chilly.  I 
am  surprised  to  see  the  bees  bumming  away  at  their 
work,  and  the  birds  singing!  The  peculiar  manner 
in  which,  at  certain  times,  all  the  various  sounds  blend 
into  a  sort  of  harmony  in  the  warm  summer  afternoons 
has  often  surprised  me,  till  I  doubted  whether  it  was 
not  possible  .that,  after  all,  the  harmony  was  not  an 
illusion  that  dwelt  in  my  own  sense  and  soul  alone.  Any 
way,  the  effect  is  the  same ;  and  if  the  soul  is  so  attuned 


48  My  Garden  Summer-Seat. 

that  it  thus  makes  harmony  for  itself,  then  it  is  only  a 
further  witness  for  the  harmony  of  the  world,  since 
through  the  soul  alone  can  it  be  apprehended,  as  through 
God  the  soul,  we  believe  that  it  was  made.  In  a  green 
field  philosophy  is  somewhat  out  of  place ;  and  so  it  is 
in  such  a  corner  as  this.  I  will  leave  the  subject,  with 
a  devout  hope  that  all  who  desire  the  kind  of  sweet 
solitude  and  society  I  enjoy  here  at  one  and  the  same 
moment  will  soon  succeed  in  realising  their  wish.  For 
this  kind  of  enjoyment  is  the  most  remote  from  selfish, 
and  feels  that  to  share  is  doubly  to  enjoy.  Therefore 

"  Blame  me  not,  laborious  band, 

For  the  common  flowers  I  brought  ; 
Every  blossom  in  my  hand 
Comes  back  laden  with  a  thought." 


II. 

MY  POND. 


FIND  a  world  of  delight  and  sweet 
ompanionship  at  all  seasons  here  by 
the  borders  of  this  pond.  Its  position  is 
just  what  that  of  a  pond  should  be  to 
'take  most  advantage  of  the  sunlight  and  the  sunset,  of 
moonlight  and  stars.  It  lies  open  along  almost  the 
whole  breadth  of  its  eastern  end,  with  a  soft  level 
grassy  platform  there,  as  if  nature  had  intended,  and 
art — pleasant  helpmate — had  done  its  best  to  reinforce 
the  intention,  that  you  should  advantageously  and  easily 
see  how  she  can  distribute  her  tree-forms  and  varied 
tints  to  the  best  advantage,  as  well  as  cast  in  a  hook 
with  comfort,  if  you  are  inclined  to  try  for  roach  or 
golden  tench,  which  abound  in  it,  and  which  at  certain 
hours  find  a  favourite  resort  and  feeding-place  in  the 
freshet ;  for  it  is,  in  truth,  a  miniature  lake,  with  true 
inlet  and  outlet,  the  banks  rising  at  both  sides,  and 
showing  that  the  pond  is  natural — the  enlargement 
of  a  very  old  watercourse.  As  you  stand  there,  rod  in 
hand,  the  falling  water  behind  you,  that  had  passed 
through  a  grating  and  bricked  channel  under  your  feet 
for  a  space  of  six  yards  or  more,  falls  into  a  miniature 

D 


49 


My  Pond. 


basin,  self-formed,  with  a  lulling  slumbrous  sound ; 
and  then,  after  short  pause  and  eddy,  works  its  way, 
glittering  in  the  sunshine,  through  grass  and  rushes 
and  waving  watercresses  of  giant  size,  over  the 
centre  of  what  was  once  the  bottom  of  a  second  and 
lower  pond,  now  dried  up  and  reclaimed  for  pasturage. 
Very  fond  the  cows  are,  if  they  can  find  the  chance,  of 
sheltering  here,  knee-deep  in  water,  in 'the  hot  days  of 


MY   POND. 

summer  under  the  shade  of  the  old  elder  tree,  which 
had  once  looked  on  its  image  in  the  sheet  of  glassy 
water  below  it. 

Round  both  sides  of  my  pond  run  trees  and  shrubs 
of  many  kinds,  most  of  them  old,  and  probably  self- 
sown  :  grey-green  willows,  spreading  branches  over 
the  water  and  lightly  dipping  in,  hollies,  blackthorns, 
beeches,  ashes,  and  alders,  more  retiring,  and  one  or 


Effect  at  Sunset.  5  r 

two  black  bullace  trees,  which  are  more  forward  to 
keep  in  line  with  the  willows,  and  which  occasionally 
bear  fruit  in  their  season,  and  attract  many  birds ; 
while  on  the  upper  or  western  end  it  is  almost  closed 
in  by  three  giant  forms  of  oaks,  and  one  magnificent 
blackthorn,  in  later  spring  hoary  and  heavy  with 
blossoms.  A  picnic  might  be  held  in  the  branches 
of  that  lordly  old  oak  in  the  middle  of  the  greeny 
crescent,  and  indeed  has  been  ;  for  if  you  walk  round 
there  you  may  see  still  the  remnants  of  the  circle  of 
seats  placed  just  above  where  the  branches  spring 
from  the  bole,  and  would  accommodate  a  tolerable  tea- 
party  were  they  restored  and  a  tea-table  set  in  the 
centre,  as  it  well  might  be. 

The  effect  at  sunset  is  sometimes  very  fine.  Often 
have  I  stood,  rod  in  hand,  in  dreamy  admiration  of  the 
wondrous  mixture  of  gold  and  green  that  inevitably 
suggested  thoughts — not  all  irreverent — of  a  burning- 
bush,  and,  momentarily  oblivious  of  the  bobbings  of 
my  float,  have  had  to  mourn  the  loss  of  what  seemed 
finer  and  heavier  fish  than  I  ever  landed  there,  and  to 
reproach  or  congratulate  myself  accordingly.  But  it  is 
a  weakness  of  fishermen  thus  unconsciously  to  moralise 
life  by  a  parable  of  the  contrast  between  wishes  and 
realities.  The  fish  that  were  lost  ever  excelled  the  fish 
that  were  caught.  But  the  glory  of  the  sight  scarce 
admitted  such  reflections  then.  In  quivering  bars  the 
foliage  seemed  turned  to  gold,  and  burned  as  it  danced 
in  the  brilliance,  if  a  faint  wind  were  stirring ;  while 
beneath  the  trees  lay  soft  fair  shadows  of  themselves, 
yet  clear  and  bcld  in  outline,  with  all  the  glory  of  eve 
about  them,  and  suggesting  a  wondrous  depth  ;  and  in 
the  middle  space,  nearer  to  me,  the  golden  rays  that 
stole  through  the  higher  leaves  flickered  and  fell,  and 


My  Pond. 


dappled  the  water,  as  it  were,  with  golden  rain  that 
seemed  to  flit  and  waver  and  return  in  wondrous 
rhythmic  regularity,  like  breathing,  or  the  notes  of  a 
musical  scale  heard  at  a  distance.  As  the  sun  sinks, 
the  brilliant  colours  die  away  into  a  kind  of  salmon 
colour  on  the  sky  in  long  soft  bars,  tremulous  if  not 
palpitating,  growing  fainter  and  fainter  at  the  extremes  ; 
the  shadows  deepen ;  but  the  twilight  is  pleasant,  and  I 
often  linger  till  the  darkness  falls,  and  I  can  listen  to 
the  owl's  cry  heard  not  far  off.  Indeed,  on  one  or 
two  occasions,  these  wonderful  winged  cats,  so  intent 
in  search  of  their  prey,  have  flown  so  close  past  my 
ear  as  to  give  me  a  surprise  and  shock,  till  I  assured 

myself,  as  the  eye 
caught  a  glimpse  of 
the  soft  white  figure 
gliding  on,  that  it 
was  only  an  owl. 
The  farmers  now  like 
to  encourage  these 
settlers,  knowingtheir 
value  as  mousers  and 
destroyers  of  other 
vermin,  and  the  army 
has  been  reinforced 
quite  recently.  The 
barn-owl,  when  she 
has  young,  is  said  to 
bring  to  her  nest  a 
mouse  every  twelve 
minutes,  and  as  both 
male  and  female  hunt, 
the  lowest  computation  is  forty  mice  a  day.  That  is 
something  surely ! 


BARN  OWL. 


Water- Hens. 


53 


The  intrusion  of  the  owl  intimates  to  me  that  I  must 
not  farther  dilate  on  nature's  inanimate  shows  at  morn 
or  eventide  (for  that  would  occupy  many  pages) ;  I 
must  speak  of  the  living  creatures  that  morning,  noon, 
and  night  bring  to  my  pond  an  attraction  of  their 
own.  A  small  community  of  water-hens  have  found 
homes  here,  one  couple  in  the  black  bullace  tree 
yonder,  which  spreads  its  branches  over  the  water, 
forming  a  tent-like  screen ;  and  as  sometimes  I  sit, 
half  hidden  in  foliage,  on  the  north  side  of  the  pond 
(for  the  fish,  at  certain  times  and  seasons,  will  quit  the 
freshet  and  seek  coolness  and  rest  in  the  shadows  there), 
they  will  lead  their  broods  along  the  margin  with  their 
peculiar,  measured, 
careful  tread,  and 
with  their  peculiar 
cry — a  kind  of  quick- 
ened and  sharpened 
cluck,  cluck  of  the 
ordinary  farm  -  yard 
fowl,  suggesting 
vaguely  possibilities 
of  domestication  and 
tameness,  which, 
however,  are  some- 
what rudely  dispelled  when  any  cause  of  fear  or  alarm 
arises.  The  warning  or  call-note  then  given  is  of  a 
very  wild,  harsh,  and  grating  half-saw-like  character — 
a  call  which  cannot,  however,  be  called  a  very  cunning 
one,  for  it  would  inevitably  draw  even  a  tyro's  atten- 
tion to  the  exact  whereabouts  of  the  bird.  On  the 
slightest  hint  of  strange  intrusion  into  their  domain, 
they  utter  this  harsh  and  grating  cry,  and  speedily 
retreat,  marching  their  youngsters  home  again  to  their 


WATER-HEN. 


54 


My  Pond. 


greeny  shelters,  under  the  sweeping  branches  of  bullace, 
blackthorn,  or  willow. 

The  young  are  very  pretty — little  balls  of  soft  black 
down,  with  a  wedge  of  greeny  yellow  for  a  beak.  If  you 
look  closely  at  them  as  they  move  along  the  margin, 
their  feet  go  twinkle,  twinkle  as  they  run,  with  a  kind 
of  darting  movement,  extremely  pretty  and  interesting. 
They  are  active  from  the  moment  they  leave  the  egg, 
and  if  frightened  when  the  parents  are  absent,  will 
take  to  the  water  and  swim  even  on  the  second  day, 
should  the  nest  be  near  to  the  surface ;  but  the  moor- 
hen sometimes  builds  high,  or,  as  we  shall  see,  occa- 
sionally raises  her  nest  higher  after  she  has  built  it, 
and  then  the  mother  carries  the  little  things  down  to 
the  water  to  give  them  their  first  outing,  and  will  care- 
fully carry  them  back  again  to  the  nest. 

Those  who  have  witnessed  it  declare  it  to  be  one 

of  the  prettiest  sights 
to  see  the  young  ones 
lifted  by  the  parents 
from  the  nest  to  the 
water.  The  coots 
practise  the  same  art, 
though  the  young  of 
the  coots  can  hardly 
be  said  to  be  so  pretty 
and  original  looking 
as  these  little  balls 
of  black  fluffy  down. 
They  are  good  and  careful  parents,  if  sometimes 
they  seem  to  be  rather  domineering  in  manner.  But 
this  may  be,  in  some  degree,  due  to  the  fact  that  they 
have  so  many  enemies  that  not  a  few  of  the  young 
never  reach  maturity.  Herons  (which  occasionally 


COOT. 


Dr.  Stanley  s  Observations.  55 

pay  the  pond  a  visit),  owls,  weasels,  rats,  and  even 
large  eels  are  only  a  few  of  those  ever  ready  to  prey 
upon  them ;  so  that  perhaps  the  eager  surveillance  and 
domineering  drill-sergeant  air  of  the  water-hen  towards 
its  young  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  more  especially 
when  we  consider  the  open  places  it  often  homes  in. 
Certainly  there  is  no  lack  of  fertility  on  the  part  of  the 
water-hen ;  she  lays  seven  or  eight  eggs,  and  has  two 
or  three  broods  a  year.  Dr.  Stanley,  Bishop  of  Norwich 
(venerated  father  of  the  late  Dean  Stanley,  and  a  minute 
and  careful  observer),  says  that  they  produce  several 
broods  a  year,  and  that  when  all  the  broods  survive,  a 
second  nest  is  built.  This  was  last  year  the  case  with 
a  pair  on  this  very  pond,  which  added  much  to  the 
parental  care  and  responsibility ;  and  the  business  of 
giving  warning-calls  to  the  elder  brood  without  leaving 
the  second  nest  was  sometimes  so  earnest  and  urgent 
as  to  be  quite  touching.  They  are  decidedly  clever 
birds  in  their  own  way,  though,  as  often  happens  with 
nature's  nurslings,  they  are  unaccountably  stupid  in 
other  and  apparently  simpler  matters,  as  some  of  their 
calls  is  enough  to  show.  Dr.  Stanley  observed  that 
when  a  water-hen  had  noticed  a  pheasant  leap  on  the 
board  of  the  feeding-boxes  the  keepers  place  for  them, 
and  they  by  its  weight  opened  the  lid,  she  at  once  tried 
the  same  thing ;  but  finding  she  was  not  heavy  enough, 
she  went  for  a  friend,  and  the  combined  weight  of  the 
two  sufficed  to  secure  them  a  good  feed,  as  reward  for 
their  astuteness.  In  favourable  circumstances,  too,  the 
water-hens  show  some  eye  for  beauty,  and,  like  the 
bower  birds,  will  decorate  their  nests.  If  near  gar- 
dens, they  will  sometimes  pilfer  flowers  of  bright 
colours — particularly  scarlet,  for  which  they  have  a 
great  fancy — wreaths  of  scarlet  anemones  having  been 


56  My  Pond. 


carried  off  by  them  for  this  purpose.  A  friend  of  mine 
is  certain  that  in  the  early  spring  mornings  they  have 
even  made  efforts  at  carrying  oft'  japonica  blossoms 
from  a  wall  in  his  garden,  whjch  lies  not  far  from  their 
quarters.  They  always  cover  the  eggs  before  leaving 
the  nest,  either  for  concealment  or  for  warmth. 

And  what  is  perhaps  more  extraordinary  still,  as  we 
have  said,  is  that  these  water-hens  will,  in  the  event  of 
flooding  or  the  rise  of  the  water,  raise  up  the  nest — 
which  is  formed  of  the  leaves  of  flags  deftly  interwoven 
—to  a  considerable  extent,  probably  by  supporting  it  on 
their  backs  and  fixing  it  pro  tern,  to  the  most  available 
branch  or  spray,  till  they  have  reached  a  perfectly  safe 
elevation.  Most  frequently  the  nest  is  supported  on  a 
branch  or  branches  just  a  little  above  the  water,  so  that 
it  is  secure  from  certain  egg-eating  neighbours,  like 
rats  or  hedgehogs,  who  pursue  their  callings,  in  most 
cases  not  far  distant  from  the  water-hen's  nest. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  about  the  water-hen's  power 
in  raising  the  nest  in  floods.  Here  is  a  passage  from 
the  description  of  a  reliable  observer  : — 

"The  nest  was  placed  a  few  inches  above  the  water, 
and  about  seven  feet  from  the  river-bank.  When  we 
first  observed  it,  it  contained  eggs.  These  were  soon 
hatched,  and  great  was  the  delight  of  the  children  to 
watch  the  old  birds  scuffle  away  from  the  nest  and 
then  to  peep  in  and  mark  the  progress  of  the  brood. 
One  sad  day  heavy  rain  fell,  a  high  flood  followed,  and 
great  was  the  children's  grief  over  the  little  birds,  which 
they  thought  must  be  drowned  and  their  nest  swept 
away.  Our  first  excursion  on  the  subsiding  of  the 
flood  was  to  the  river-side  nursery.  What  were  the 
delight  and  astonishment  of  the  young  folks  at  behold- 
ing the  nest  firmly  fixed  to  some  of  the  reeds  and 


Water-  Voles.  5  7 


waving  in  the  air  fully  five  feet  above  the  surface  of 
the  water !  As  we  watched,  we  saw  the  mother-bird 
travel  down  an  inclined  plane  made  of  bent  rushes, 
which  led  direct  from  the  nest  to  the  river-bank.  Her 
brood  followed  her,  and  soon  all  dropped  into  the  water 
and  were  hidden  among  the  reeds.  Within  an  hour 
we  saw  them  all  return  to  the  nest  up  the  inclined 
plane,  and  so  things  went  on  for  several  days  till  they 
forsook  their  home.  On  examination  it  was  clear  to 
us  that  as  the  water  rose  the  old  birds  must  have 
placed  themselves  under  the  nest  and  gradually  lifted 
it  on  their  backs  some  five  feet.  But  it  was  not  in 
their  power  to  make  it  descend,  so  they  fastened  it 
securely  to  the  reeds,  and  constructed  the  roadway  to 
the  shore  for  the  egress  and  ingress  of  their  brood — a 
beautiful  instance  of  parental  care  and  of  the  instinct 
God  bestows  upon  His  creatures  for  their  preservation 
and  that  of  their  brood." 

Here  the  water-hens  have  laid  their  eggs  and  reared 
their  broods  for  many  seasons — for  seven  now  to  my 
own  knowledge  and  observation — not  much  frightened, 
apparently,  by  the  horses  that  come  down  here  to 
drink,  and  sometimes  in  the  hot  days  will  indulge 
themselves  in  a  good  bath  and  swim,  much  to  the 
chagrin  of  the  men,  who  loudly  cry  and  scream  and 
whistle  at  them,  not  liking  the  extra  work  of  rubbing 
dry  thereby  entailed  on  them,  or  the  dogs  that  come 
there  from  the  farm-house  to  swim  and  enjoy  them- 
selves every  day. 

And  not  far  from  the  moor-hens  is  a  settlement  of 
water-voles,  who  very  quietly  and  unobtrusively  carry 
on  their  daily  life  and  work.  Beautiful  little  creatures, 
with  that  gentle  look  and  soft  retiring  shyness  in  their 
every  action  which  so  appeals  to  the  lover  of  animals 


My  Pond. 


and  awakens  his  curiosity  and  affection.  Many  a  time 
have  I  had  my  train  of  meditation  suddenly  interrupted 
by  the  plop  of  one  of  them  from  the  bank — a  sound 
they  invariably  made  when  descending  into  the  water 
thus,  and  almost  the  only  sound  they  do  make — though 
in  swimming  they  will  come  towards  you  till  they  are 
within  a  few  yards,  and  then  their  brown-grey  heads 
will  softly,  suddenly  disappear,  leaving  you  doubtful 


THE   WATER-VOLE. 


if  you  have  not  been  dreaming,  till,  if  you  are  watchful, 
the  fact  is  attested  by  just  one  little  silvery  bubble  that 
will  rise  at  their  point  of  disappearance.  Long  have  I 
sometimes  watched  for  their  reappearance  at  distant 
points  of  the  pond  to  be  disappointed,  till  I  learned 
that  it  is  the  habit  of  the  creature  in  these  circum- 
stances to  enter  its  nest  from  under  the  water,  having 
at  least  two  openings  to  it,  which  leads  the  family, 


Vegetable  Feeders?  59 

when  it  increases,  to  do  a  good  deal  of  harm  to  the 
banks  by  burrowing,  though  generally  they  choose  an 
old  tree  stump,  and  by  preference  burrow  round  about 
it.  Their  powers  in  this  way  are  very  remarkable. 
Man,  when  he  makes  a  tunnel,  needs  no  end  of  levels 
and  instruments  and  calculations,  the  vole,  in  the  dark, 
like  the  mole,  can  strike  his  line  and  burrow  along  it, 
and  come  out  at  the  precise  point  he  wanted.  We  call 
this  instinct,  but  when  you  think  of  it,  it  is  a  wonderful 
thing.  The  vole,  from  his  teeth  and  structure  of  head 
is  more  a  beaver  than  anything  else,  and  indeed  he 
was  once  so  classed  scientifically  with  the  beavers,  but 
now  forms  a  leading  item  in  another  class  of  rodents. 
Unlike  the  rat  he  has  very  short  rounded  ears,  and  a 
short  tail  by  comparison,  and  his  teeth  differ  in  certain 
important  respects.  His  teeth  are  yellow  teeth  like 
the  beaver,  owing  to  the  enamel  facing  they  have,  and 
they  are  precisely  of  the  chisel  character.  Were  it 
not  so  they  would  not  be  efficient  for  the  work  it  has 
to  do. 

There  has  been  a  good  deal  of  discussion  about  the 
habits  of  these  pretty  little  animals  as  regards  food, 
some  saying  that  they  are  purely  vegetable  feeders, 
and  others  that  they  are  occasionally  carnivorous  or 
fish-eating,  and  that  they  will  eat  the  young  of  the 
water-hens,  &c.  &c.  We  have  good  reason  to  believe 
that  they  are  strict  vegetarians,  having  frequently  set 
morsels  of  meat  of  various  kinds  in  their  way,  which 
never  tempted  them  that  we  could  see,  and  were  often 
passed  by  them  with  indifference ;  but  these  same 
morsels,  were  sometimes  carried  off  by  brown  rats  that 
had  their  holes  in  the  dry  ditches  near  by,  an  animal 
for  whose  depredations  our  water-vole  is  doubtless 
often  blamed. 


6o  My  Pond. 


As  for  the  water-hens,  they  live,  so  far  as  I  can  see, 
in  the  most  perfect  amity  with  the  voles,  leading  out 
their  young  broods  fearlessly  while  the  rodents  are 
swimming  about,  which  could  hardly  be  the  case,  did 
the  voles  intrude  into  the  water-hens'  nests  in  search  of 
eggs,  or  really  have  serious  designs  upon  their  young 
ones.  This,  at  least,  is  no  matter  of  doubt,  for  at  cer- 
tain seasons  of  the  year  we  have  witnessed  it  almost 
daily.  The  voles  rejoice  to  browse  on  the  flags,  irises, 
rushes,  and  green  herbage  that  surround  the  pond, 
and  are  particularly  fond  of  the  leaves  of  the  iris,  and 
will  sit  on  their  hind  legs  like  a  squirrel  and  nibble 
contentedly  at  one  spot  for  a  long  time.  Their  mode 
of  eating  is  similar  to  that  of  the  squirrel.  They  sit 
on  their  haunches  and  hold  the  food  in  their  front 
paws,  and  nibble,  nibble  at  it  in  the  prettiest  way. 
They  do  not  properly  hybernate,  but  are  partially  dor- 
mant during  winter,  and  lay  up  a  store  of  food  in  a 
shelf  or  corner,  specially  prepared.  Mr.  Groom  Napier 
found  in  one  of  these,  when  he  had  dug  out  a  water- 
vole's  tunnelled  abode,  a  large  quantity  of  fragments  of 
carrots  and  potatoes,  sufficient  to  fill  a  peck  measure. 

I  have  certainly  never  seen  them  seeking  for  worms 
or  insects,  or  eating  them.  As  for  their  eating  fish- 
spawn,  they  cannot  do  much  depredation  in  that  way, 
for  this  pool,  which  has  been  always  well-fished,  in- 
creases to  such  an  extent  in  tench  and  in  roach,  that  in 
the  evening,  when  the  gnats  come  out,  and  disport 
themselves  in  their  thousands  on  the  surface  of  the 
water,  you  can  see  the  roach  in  shoals  when  the  sun- 
shine falls  at  certain  favourite  spots  near  the  surface, 
towards  the  inlet,  really  making,  when  you  look  low 
along  the  water,  a  kind  of  faint  dark-blue  or  purple 
patches,  from  the  midst  of  which  every  few  seconds 


"  Summer  Snipes!'  6r 

one  will  leap,  showing  head  and  shoulders,  and  some- 
times the  whole  body,  and  sending  a  circle  of  dancing 
ripples  over  the  place,  with  an  indescribably  lustrous 
and  beautiful  effect.  For  these  reasons  I  do  not  be- 
lieve that  the  water -voles  are,  in  any  respect,  car- 
nivorous.* Four  years  ago,  indeed,  the  moor-hens — in 
spite  of  all  their  enemies — had  increased  to  such  an 
extent  that  my  friend,  the  resident  in  the  place,  tells  me 
he  had  most  unwillingly  to  shoot  a  number  of  them. 
They  made  a  favourite  feeding-ground  in  a  field  at  the 
side  of  the  pond,  and  did  much  damage  there — one 
corner  of  it  being  eaten  bare. 

Occasionally  as  I  have  stood  fishing  there  in  July  or 
August,  a  pair,  or  perhaps  three  of  what  are  called 
locally  "  summer  snipe,"  not  the  common  sandpiper, 
however,  would  suddenly  dash  over  the  pond,  and,  if 
I  could  only  keep  still  enough,  or  creep  silently  under 
cover  of  near  foliage,  would  settle  on  the  margin,  and 
make  sundry  observations,  no  doubt  in  search  of  some 
particular  tid-bit,  which  they  do  not  just  then  find  so 
easily  elsewhere.  Very  beautiful  are  they  with  their 
whitish  throats  and  breasts,  and  dark  velvety  back,  and 
red  or  chestnut-tipped  wings — a  somewhat  swallow- 
like  appearance  at  first  glance,  though  they  are  much 
bigger  and  long-billed.  Their  flight  is  very  quick, 
and  their  cry  is  a  sharp  short  whistle.  The  last 
memorable  occasion  on  which  I  saw  them,  and  when, 
unfortunately  in  one  respect  I  was  not  alone,  was  on 
Saturday,  August  27,  1887,  when  my  good  friend,  the 
resident  on  the  place,  was  at  my  side.  He  regretted 

*  Since  this  was  written,  a  friend  has  pointed  out  to  me  an  article  in 
Science  Gosszp'(\SS6,rpp.  155-158),'^  which  Mr.  G.  T.  Rope  says  that 
even  the  common  bank-vole  is  a  purely  vegetable  feeder.  He  has 
kept  these  creatures  in  confinement  for  longTperiods. 


62  My  Pond. 


(which  I  confess  I  did  not,  though  his  wish  was 
prompted  by  the  most  generous  feelings  towards  me) 
that  he  had  not  his  gun  that  he  might  have  got  a  brace. 
But  they  were  scared  by  our  presence,  and  winged 
their  flight  to  other  scenes — "  fresh  woods  and  pastures 
new  " — doubtless  disappointed  in  securing  the  object  of 
their  visit.  Speaking  of  their  occasional  appearance, 
my  friend  said  that  their  visits  there  were  invariably 
preliminary  to  heavy  rains  (it  was  clear  and  bright 
when  they  came  that  day),  a  matter  which  he  had 
often  verified,  and  which  I  had  not  previously  done. 
But,  certainly,  on  this  occasion  he  was  right.  Rain 
fell  heavily  there  on  the  Saturday  night,  and  on  the 
Sunday  morning  so  heavily  as  to  cause  very  thin 
church  attendances,  and  again  fell  heavily  on  the 
Monday  morning;  and  the  weather  the  whole  week 
following  was  broken  and  wet.  It  would  be  interesting 
to  know  if  the  same  facts,  as  bearing  on  meteorological 
lore,  have  been  observed  in  other  localities.  No  doubt 
the  minute  observations  of  the  movements  of  birds,  if 
carried  on  systematically  over  the  whole  country,  wrould 
be  of  great  use  as  regards  weather  forecasting;  and, 
at  one  time,  when  Dr.  Smiles'  hero,  Thomas  Edwards, 
the  Scottish  naturalist,  was  still  alive,  there  was  a 
proposal  to  institute  such  a  system  by  securing  the 
regular  aid  of  such  local  observers  as  he  to  report 
to  headquarters — a  kind  of  wing  (or  wings)  to  the 
Meteorological  Survey.  But  I  am  not  aware  that  it 
has  ever  been  carried  out. 

While  I  stand  fishing  on  the  stump  of  an  old  elder 
which  had  been  cut  down  some  years  ago,  and  is  now 
again  burgeoning  into  beauty,  framed  like  a  portrait 
with  greenery  round  me,  a  furze-chat  pursues  its 
business  of  attending  to  its  young"uquite  close  to  me. 


Perseverance  of  Birds.  63 


I  can  hear  it  flying  out  and  in  to  its  nest ;  and  on  the 
slightest  noise  or  movement  on  the  part  of  the  dog  I 
have  sometimes  with  me,  it  will  utter  its  short  hoarse 
cry  of  warning  or  alarm.  This  I  seldom  hear  from  it 
when  the  dog  is  not  with  me,  which  proves,  I  think, 
that  the  little  bird  has  some  idea  that  I  am  too  pre- 
occupied with  my  own  task  to  interfere  with  it ;  though 
it  does  not  quite  trust  the  dog  in  the  same  way,  as, 
indeed,  it  is  quite  right  in  not  doing :  they  are  so 
cunning. 

In  the  summer  of  1889  a  thrush  built  a  nest  in  the 
fork  of  a  small  tree  right  behind  where  I  stand,  and 
sat  on  her  eggs  and  nursed  her  brood  within  a  few 
yards  of  me.  When  I  withdrew  a  little  to  re-bait,  I 
was  within  a  yard  and  a  half  of  her  nest.  Yet  still 
she  sat ;  and  by  raising  my  head  a  little  as  I  stood  I 
could  see  her  and  she  could  see  me — the  dark,  honest, 
bead-like  eye  with  not  a  touch  of  fear  in  it  met  mine 
with  a  kind  of  confidence  which  was  not  unrewarded ; 
for  I  carefully  kept  the  secret,  in  response  to  her  trust, 
till  she  herself  revealed  her  whereabouts  to  my  friend 
the  proprietor,  when  he  had  come  round  to  talk  to  me, 
by  flying  off  her  young — little  yellow-mouthed,  broad- 
beaked  things,  with  wide  throats — and  I  could  not  save 
them,  for  he  at  once  condemned  them  as  prospective 
eaters  of  his  fruit.  And  I  was  sorry,  though  I  could 
not  fully  say  so. 

The  perseverance  of  birds,  too,  is  really  wonderful, 
and  on  this  spot  I  have  seen  many  remarkable  instances 
of  it.-*  In  the  spring,  when  nest-building  is  going  on, 
the  devices  adopted  to  transport  certain  materials  to  a 
high  branch  on  a  neighbouring  tree  are  hardly  credible, 
any  more  than  is  the  manner  in  which  the  birds  are 
inclined  at  a  stretch  to  help  each  other.  A  couple  of 


64  My  Pond. 


wrens  who  built  last  year  in  the  hedge  just  behind 
where  I  now  stand,  afforded  me  no  little  amusement 
and  interest,  they  were  so  assiduous,  and  so  fond  of 
stealing  a  moment  to  pour  forth  a  few  notes  of  song. 
Some  feathers  they  had  no  end  of  trouble  in  transport- 
ing to  their  nest  from  right  opposite  the  pond,  which 
they  did  not  try  to  cross,  but  flew  round.  The  wind 
was  against  them,  and  was  very  apt,  if  the  feather  was 
left  for  an  instant  for  rest  or  relief,  to  blow  it  back 
again.  Finally,  they  doubtless  sought  and  procured 
the  help  of  another  pair,  and  the  four  managed  by 
their  combined  efforts  to  get  it  into  the  hedge  properly. 
I  looked  at  that  nest  afterwards,  and  was  surprised  to 
see  how  neatly  the  wren  had  covered  it  with  leaves  of 
the  beech  hedge  in  which  it  was  built,  so  that  one 
would  have  fancied  it  was  a  mere  tuft  of  leaves  gathered 
there — a  specimen  of  the  protective  instinct  in  nest- 
building,  which  is  most  noticeable  in  those  birds  whose 
eggs  are  of  a  colour  which  would  be  most  easily 
noticed. 

From  this  point  of  vantage,  too,  I  have  seen  the 
little  robin  redbreast  on  the  walk  that  skirts  the  pond 
perform  wonders  in  carrying  off  to  its  young  brood  big 
worms,  which  it  took  care  to  beat  well  with  its  beak — 
devoting  to  this  end  some  five  or  six  minutes,  and 
then  boldly  carrying  off  the  long  heavy  prize  on  its 
bill. 

In  the  dozing  heat  of  the  summer  afternoons  a  small 
variety  of  the  green  dragon-fly  will  sometimes  be  found 
in  considerable  numbers  about  the  pond.  Often  they 
fix  themselves  on  the  top  of  the  float,  and  will  stick 
there  until  the  float  is  moved  with  some  decision. 
I  have  often  wondered  what  of  attraction  there 
could  be  for  those  insects  in  the  float,  and  would  be 


Lesser  Denizens.  65 


giad  if  any  one  would  tell  me.  Of  course,  every  one 
knows  that  they  find  their  food  in  the  small  micro- 
scopical creatures  which  infest  ponds,  that  they  lay  their 
eggs  in  the  water,  and  in  it  their  nymphs  emerge  from 
the  pupa  and  develop  their  wings,  and  that,  unlike 
most  creatures,  they  breathe  through  their  tail,  which, 
though  long  and  large,  is  not  therefore  a  useless 
appendage.  But  all  this  throws  no  light  on  their  love 
of  a  float,  which  cannot  be  appetising;  and,  as  the 
libellula  are  all  so  greedy,  it  is  the  more  to  be  won- 
dered at  that  they  can  choose  to  spend  their  time  in 
this  apparently  profitless  way.  How  apt  and  clear 
and  exact  is  Lord  Tennyson's  picture  in  "The  Two 
Voices  "  :— 

"  To-day  I  saw  the  dragon-fly 
Come  from  the  wells  where  he  did  lie. 

An  inner  impulse  rent  the  veil 
Of  his  old  husk  ;  from  head  to  tail 
Came  out  clear  plates  of  shining  mail. 
He  dried  his  wings  ;  like  gauze  they  grew, 
Through  croft  and  pasture,  wet  with  dew  : 
A  living  flash  of  light  he  flew." 

The  lesser  denizens  of  the  pond  are  equally  active. 
You  may  see  the  water  boatman  swimming  on  his  back 
— pleasant  pastime  mixed  with  business  in  his  case,  for 
this  is  the  law  of  nature ;  if  they  do  not  take  their 
pleasures  sadly,  business  is  never  quite  neglected. 
There  he  goes  swimming  on  his  back,  making  faint 
triangular  ripples  behind  him,  as  he  propels  himself 
swiftly  by  the  long  cilia  or  hairs  on  each  side  of  him 
— natural  oarlets,  which  far  surpass  the  finest  feather- 
ings yet  made  by  man.  And  that  little  blue-black 
bloodthirsty  "  whirligig  "  is  here  too,  who,  but  half  the 
size  of  the  boatman,  will  descend  upon  and  capture 

E 


66  My  Pond. 


him,  spinning  round  and  round  in  circles  like  a  tiny 
dervish  of  the  waters ;  only  there  is  no  sacredness  in 
his  devices,  but  only  a  disguise  that  he  may  dart  the 
better,  and  the  more  surely  secure  his  prey.  Crowds 
of  water-bugs  are  also  at  times  to  be  seen,  and  water- 
measurers  with  their  most  dainty  aquatic  appurtenances. 
With  what  delicacy  nature  has  furnished  and  armed 
some  apparently  unworthy  creatures  !  Of  course,  my 
pond  has  its  due  share  of  the  more  common  visitors, 
such  as  water- wagtails  and  swallows — the  latter  some- 
times dipping  into  the  water  and  causing  a  sudden 
bright  flash  in  the  sunshine.  Water-beetles,  large  and 
small,  reveal  themselves  at  as  many  points  as  you  look. 

Angling  in  such  positions  may  well  be  called  the 
"contemplative  man's  recreation."  It  is,  at  all  events, 
a  good  introduction  to  nature  in  some  of  her  phases, 
for  it  would  seem  as  though  to  take  a  rod  in  hand  and 
to  appear  completely  absorbed  in  your  pursuit  was  a 
magical  way  to  put  all  the  denizens  of  the  place  quite 
at  their  ease.  They  are  indeed  either  very  penetrating 
or  very  cunning.  It  has  been  well  said  that — 

"  In  some  instinctive  way  these  wild  creatures  learn 
to  distinguish  when  one  is  or  is  not  intent  upon  them 
in  a  spirit  of  enmity ;  and  if  very  near  it  is  always  the 
eye  they  watch.  So  long  as  you  observe  them,  as  it 
were,  from  the  corner  of  the  eyeball,  sideways,  or  look 
over  their  heads  at  something  beyond,  it  is  well.  Turn 
your  glance  full  upon  them  to  get  a  better  view,  and 
they  are  gone." 

To  sit  perfectly  still,  as  Thoreau  said,  is  a  good  means 
to  get  all  the  wild  things  of  wood  and  field  to  come  and 
show  themselves  to  you  in  turn ;  but  I  believe  fishing, 
which  does  not  demand  such  unchanging  cramping 
positions,  is  a  yet  better  one.  A  very  good  essay 


Charles  St.  John.  67 


might  well  be  written,  and  I  am  not  aware  that  it  has 
yet  been  exhaustively  written,  though  Izaak  Walton 
and  many  of  his  disciples  have  glanced  at  it,  on  angling 
as  an  aid  to  the  study  of  nature  and  natural  history  in 
certain  of  their  aspects.  It  ensures  that  you  shall  not 
defeat  your  own  object,  even  by  too  actively  and  hotly 
pursuing  it,  as  too  often  happens,  at  all  events  to  the 
tyro  or  amateur.  Nothing,  indeed,  is  more  difficult  to 
acquire  than  that  patience  and  willingness  to  reserve 
action  for  the  sake  of  observing  new  traits  of  character 
and  unexpected  actions.  This  is  the  test  of  real  cul- 
ture in  the  sportsman,  this  capability  to  forego  sport, 
when  any  exceptional  trait  will  reward  observation; 
and  nothing  in  the  Badminton  book  on  "  shooting," 
has  so  much  delighted  me  as  the  many  evidences  of 
this  quality,  which  has  made  the  work  a  happy  treasury 
of  natural  history,  and  wise  incitement  to  scientific 
observation,  as  well  as  a  most  excellent  and  practical 
guide  to  sportsmen,  and  especially  young  sportsmen. 
This  it  was  which  gave  colour  and  character  to  all  the 
writings  of  the  late  Mr.  Charles  St.  John.  Without 
this,  indeed,  they  would  have  had  but  half  their  value. 
Charles  Waterton's  instinct  in  this  regard  rose  to 
genius.  This,  too,  it  is  which  gives  charm  to  Charles 
Kingsley's  open  air  chapters,  his  "chalk-stream  studies," 
and  so  on,  and  often  communicates  a  delicate  fresh- 
ness and  gracious  felicity  to  the  pages  of  the  Rev.  G.  M. 
Watkins.  Without  its  presence,  indeed,  to  a  greater 
or  lesser  degree,  all  writings  on  sport  are  simply  so 
many  incitements  to  cold-blooded  butchery,  in  which 
jealousy,,  vanity,  and  greed  of  personal  success  and 
superiority  are  the  chief  constituents. 

Sir   Edward  Hamley,  in  his  little  essay  on   "Our 
Poor    Relations,"    notes   this  quaintly,    and   with   sly 


68  My  Pond. 


serio-comic  touch  sketches  the  sportsman  of  the  con- 
trary type,  in  his  education  and  his  tendencies. 

"  We  will  now,  after  the  manner  of  great  moralists, 
such  as  he  who  depicted  the  careers  of  the  Industrious 
and  Idle  Apprentices,  give  the  reverse  of  the  picture, 
in  the  horrible  imp  of  empty  head  and  stony  heart, 
who  has  been  trained  to  regard  the  creatures  around 
him  as  the  mere  ministers  of  his  pleasure  and  his  pride, 
and  who,  in  fact,  represents  in  its  worst  form  the  in- 
different or  cruel  state  of  feeling  towards  animals. 
Provided  almost  in  his  cradle  by  his  unnatural  parents 
with  puppies  and  kittens  whereon  to  wreak  his  evil 
propensities,  he  treats  them,  to  the  best  of  his  ability, 
as  the  infant  Hercules  treated  the  serpents,  and  when 
provoked  to  retaliate  with  tooth  and  claw,  they  are 
ordered,  with  his  full  concurrence,  to  immediate  execu- 
tion. A  little  later  he  hails  the  periodical  pregnancies 
of  the  ill-used  family  as  so  many  opportunities  in  store 
for  drowning  the  progeny.  All  defenceless  animals 
falling  into  his  power  are  subject  to  martyrdom  by 
lapidation.  Show  him  a  shy  bird  of  rare  beauty  on 
moor  or  heath,  in  wood  or  valley,  and  the  soulless 
goblin  immediately  shies  a  stone  at  it.  Stray  tabbies 
are  the  certain  victims  of  his  bull-terrier,  and  the  terrier 
itself,  when  it  refuses  to  sit  up  and  smoke  a  pipe,  or  to 
go  into  the  river  after  a  water-rat,  is  beaten  and  kicked 
without  mercy.  He  goes  with  a  relish  to  see  the 
keeper  shoot  old  Ponto,  who  was  whelped  ten  years 
ago  in  the  kennel,,  and  comes  in  to  give  his  sisters 
(who  don't  care)  appreciative  details  of  the  execution. 
As  a  sportsman,  he  is  a  tyrant  to  his  dogs,  a  butcher 
to  his  horse ;  and  sitting  on  that  blown  and  drooping 
steed,  he  looks  with  a  disgusting  satisfaction  when  the 
fox  is  broken  up.  Throughout  life  he  regards  all  his 


The  Barn  Owl.  69 

animated  possessions  (including  his  unhappy  wife) 
simply  as  matters  of  a  certain  money  value,  to  be  made 
to  pay  or  to  be  got  rid  of.  Not  to  pursue  his  revolting 
career  through  all  its  stages,  we  will  merely  hint  that 
he  probably  ends  by  committing  a  double  parricide, 
and  being  righteously  condemned  to  the  gallows,  and  is 
reprieved  only  by  the  appropriate  tenderness  of  the 
Home  Secretary." 

There  is  more  meaning  and  practical  suggestion 
under  this  light,  half-bantering  vein,  than  in  many  a 
severe  treatise  on  humanity. 

Mr.  St.  John,  in  closing  the  fourteenth  chapter  of 
his  "  Wild  Sports  and  Natural  History  of  the  High- 
lands," has  this  confession :  "  Though  naturally  all 
men  are  carnivorous,  and  therefore  animals  of  prey, 
and  inclined  by  nature  to  hunt  and  destroy  other 
creatures,  and  although  I  share  in  this  natural  instinct 
to  a  great  extent,  I  have  far  more  pleasure  in  seeing 
these  different  animals  enjoying  themselves  about  me, 
and  in  observing  their  different  habits,  than  I  have  in 
hunting  down  and  destroying  them,"  which  is  the  very 
spirit  of  the  true  naturalist  and  sportsman. 

I  have  spoken  of  the  surprise  of  the  barn  owl  as  I 
stood  by  the  pond  musing  in  the  moonlight,  but  there 
are  other  nightly  visitors  and  passers-by.  The  truth 
is,  nature  has  no  sleeping  time;  when  one  set  of  busy 
workers  leaves  off,  another  comes  on,  and  she  knows 
well  how  to  provide  for  them  all.  If  there  are  abun- 
dant supplies  of  flowers,  bright-coloured,  and  even 
garish,  to  front  the  sun  and  close  their  eyes  with  the 
falling  shadows  of  eventide,  she  has  also  some  fav- 
ourites which  open  their  sweets  to  the  night  and  deny 
them  to  the  day,  and  show  their  charms  only  in  the 
darkness,  that  the  night-fliers  may  also  have  their  work 


70  My  Pond. 


and  pleasure.  When  the  butterflies  disappear,  forth 
come  the  moths ;  when  the  day-beetles  retire,  they 
have  successors  in  as  brilliant  a  company,  the  glow- 
worm among  them ;  when  the  lark  and  linnet,  the 
thrush  and  the  blackbird,  the  robin  and  the  wren, 
retire  to  rest,  and  are  silent,  then  come  forth  the 
night-jar,  that  queer  compound  of  swallow  and  hawk, 
and  the  owls  and  the  bats  are  busy.  When  the  squirrels 
and  the  voles  have  curled  themselves  up  to  sleep — the 
one  in  his  airy  swinging  cradle  at  the  top  of  the  tree, 
the  other  in  his  nest  among  its  kindly  protecting  rootage 
down  below — the  hedgehog  comes  warily  forth  ;  and 
often  have  I  seen  him,  with  his  quick,  scuttling,  old 
womanish  walk,  making  his  way  about  the  hedges 
and  the  dry  ditches  round  the  pond,  intently  seeking 
for  his  food.  An  assiduous  slug,  snail,  and  insect 
hunter,  he  has  a  great  deal  to  bear  from  the  country 
folks,  who  blame  him  for  sucking  the  cows'  teats,  and 
for  taking  the  eggs  of  the  partridges  and  pheasants, 
and  even  capturing  and  devouring  chickens  now  and 
then.  An  unrelenting  war  is  waged  against  him  by 
those  who  should  be  his  best  friends — the  farmers. 
I  do  not  believe  that  he  is  guilty  of  some  of  the  crimes 
of  which  he  is  accused  ;  though,  of  course,  in  domesti- 
cation, he  is  very  fond  of  milk.  He  may  take  an  egg 
now  and  then,  but  then  he  renders  good  service  for  it. 
There  is  such  a  meek,  self-depreciating  look  about  him 
— such  a  reluctant  sort  of  assent  to  yielding,  even  to 
his  own  necessities,  that  were  I  inclined  to  believe  in 
transmigration  of  souls,  I  would  say  that  the  hedge- 
hogs are  tenanted  by  those  who  regard  every  act  as  an 
atonement  for  injuries  done  to  others. 

All  nature's  workers  are  thus,  in  a  sense,  only  half- 
timers  after  all.     How  often  in  the  moonlight  have  I 


A   Mirror  of  Life. 


stood  on  this  bank  and  watched  and  listened,  rapt  with 
the  magic  beauty  of  the  scene,  the  moonlight  silvering 
the  tips  of  the  trees,  and  the  pond  reflecting  a  softer 
and  more  poetic  image  of  all  the  leafy  world  around  it. 
Ah  !  the  moonlight  is  a  wonderful  painter !  and  with 
some  effects  outrivals  the  sun,  as  Rembrandt,  with  his 
deep  shadows,  got  more  powerful  expression  very  often 
than  Rubens  with  all  his  high  lights. 

And  the  varying  tints  and  tones  on  the  water  by 
day,  so  ceaselessly  changing,  are  like  images  of 
changeful  human  life.  Not  the  slightest  cloud  passes 
but,  in  the  sunshine,  mirrors  itself  here,  sometimes 
soft,  fleecy,  smitten  with  golden  fire,  or  gray  and 
quiet  and  one-coloured,  gliding  slowly  on  ;  then,  again, 
on  a  dark  day,  the  water  is  dull,  sombre,  greenish,  and 
obscure ;  and  when  again  a  breeze  ripples  it,  all  seems 
to  move  in  secret  rhythmic  harmony,  water,  foliage,  and 
wind  making  a  music  so  subtle  that  it  is  impossible  to 
discriminate  and  to  attribute  to  each  element  the  effects 
due  properly  to  it. 

We  have  some 
pretty  visitors  in 
the  shape  of  but- 
terflies, who  find 
dainty  bits  on  the 
growths  round  the 
pond,  the  red  ad- 
miral, the  swallow- 
-tail,  sometimes  a 
peacorkor  clouded 
yellow,  and  the  giant  cabbage  butterfly  among  the  rest. 

One  or  two  moths  sometimes  come  this  way,  and 
will  frequently  bump  against  your  head  in  the  even- 
ings if  you  are  quiet  enough,  and  then  suddenly  recover 


BUTTERFLY. 


72  My  Pond. 


themselves  and  go  off  with  wonderful  speed — a  sort  of 
lightning  flash  in  the  dark.  I  have  not  seen  any  of 
the  stately  and  beautiful  Sphingidce,  humming-birds  of 
our  islands,  but  there  is  a  small  red  underwing,  and  a 
lovely  little  eggar.  Why  is  it  that  nature  has  endowed 
a  whole  race  of  creatures  with  such  wondrous  beauty, 
such  elfin  lightness  of  flight,  such  silence  and  velocity, 
like  shooting  stars,  and  practically  hidden  it  all  from 
the  eyes  of  men  ?  How  few  know  the  night-moths 
(only  some  species  fly  by  day,  and  they  are  not 
the  most  brilliant).  They  far  outshine  even  the 
butterflies  in  their  lovely  colouring,  the  harmony 
and  grace  of  their  hues,  and  they  surpass  them  in 
the  delicate  fairy-like  prettiness  of  their  forms.  And 
then  that  silken  silence  of  flight — their  wings  how 
exquisitely  perfect  in  balance,  how  delicate  their  move- 
ment. No  invention  of  man's  can  compare  with  it. 
The  common  idea  of  moths  has  adhering  to  it  some 
unlucky  association  of  the  hated  and  destructive  clothes- 
moth — something  that  suggests  dust  and  musty  offen- 
sive odours,  or  only  a  degree  better,  the  irritating  per- 
sistence of  some  smaller  species  round  the  candle  or 
lamp  in  the  evening.  The  moths  are,  indeed,  the 
jewels  of  the  night — more  brilliant  than  the  butterflies, 
who  are,  in  fact,  the  moths  of  day,  as  the  moths  are 
the  butterflies  of  night.  The  French,  indeed,  call 
them  the  papillons-de-nuit,  which  is  truly  a  poem 
in  a  name.  Practically  there  is  no  difference  in  the 
development  of  the  two  creatures,  either  as  caterpillar, 
chrysalis,  or  perfect  insect.  The  moth  is,  in  fact,  a 
butterfly  which  has  developed  too  beautiful  and  har- 
monious an  aspect  to  escape  in  the  daylight  the  attacks 
of  men  and  larger  animals ;  and  prudent  nature  has 
bred  in  them  the  protective  instinct,  so  that  only  under 


The  Fairy  Moths.  73 

the  shadow  of  twilight  or  night  do  they  come  out  to  look 
for  their  favourite  food.  And  the  protective  instinct 
is  further  seen  in  the  fact  that  the  upper  wings  are 
usually  a  dull  colour,  that  of  the  tree  on  which  they 
rest  by  day.  Over  in  one  of  the  cottage  gardens  not 
far  off,  there  are  gay  clusters  of  evening  primroses, 
that  nod  and  waver  in  the  wind  as  I  pass.  It  may 
be  that  our  beautiful  red  underwings  and  eggars 
are  making  their  way  there  to  give  and  take  after 
nature's  higher  law  of  exchange.  The  moths  retire 
at  dawn,  when  nature  is  just  preparing  to  bring  on 
her  army  of  day-workers,  and,  like  too  many  invalids, 
they  fall  into  a  profound  slumber  by  three  o'clock  in 
the  middle  of  summer,  and  remain  through  all  the 
hours  of  sunlight  as  completely  invisible  as  though 
they  were  not.  Lovely  moths  ! 

Thus  my  fishing  for  roach  and  tench  has  led  me  to 
love  this  pond,  where  I  am  often  to  be  found ;  and  my 
love  for  the  pond  has  gotten  me  many  delightful  friends 
and  acquaintances  (who  are  not,  like  too  many  worldly 
ones,  prone  to  leave  one  just  when  they  are  most 
needed),  and  these  delightful  friends  and  acquaint- 
ances have  done  not  a  little  to  widen  my  sympathies, 
if  they  have  not  helped  to  quicken  my  observation,  so 
that  you  are  not  surprised — as  I,  at  least,  hope  you  are 
not — that  I  have  even  deemed  it  worthy  of  record  alike 
from  pen  and  pencil. 


III. 

MY  WOOD. 

[Y  wood  is  at  no  great  distance  from 
my  favourite  pond,  which  I  have  just 
described.  A  walk  of  five  minutes  or  so 
by  a  meadow,  and  then  down  a  lane, 
with  high  untrimmed  hedges  on  either 
side,  the  banks  at  proper  season  bright 
with  primroses  and  violets  and  dog- 
roses,  and  later  in  the  year  clusters  of  the  wild  hop 
hanging  out  luxuriously  above,  the  large  convolvulus 
blowing  its  trumpets  sweetly  to  the  wind ;  and  again 
through  a  meadow,  by  the  side  of  the  stream  which 
flows  from  the  pond,  brings  you  to  the  entrance,  where 
you  cross  a  rustic  bridge ;  for  just  here  the  little  stream 
flows  into  a  larger  one,  which  skirts  the  one  side  of  the 
wood  throughout  its  entire  length.  This  larger  stream 
flows  on  with  a  babbling  murmur,  as  though  it  were 
ever  singing  to  itself  a  quiet  tune,  as  Coleridge  has  it 
in  "The  Ancient  Mariner,"  whether  it  is  the  leafy 
month  of  June  or  not.  There  you  see,  as  you  look 
down,  it  turns  and  twists  and  glimmers,  as  though 
it  returned  your  smile,  making  all  look  greener,  and, 
where  it  is  not  almost  overspanned  by  the  overhanging 
branches,  mirroring  and  mocking  sky  and  cloud  in  the 
most  unexpected  and  fantastic  fashion. 

As  you  walk  into  the  wood  it  seems  as  though  the 


Signs  of  Life. 


75 


music  of  the  brook  went  with  you  to  inform  the  silence. 
Silent  indeed  it  is  at  the  present  mid-day  hour,  with 
only  the  suggestion  of  an  underhum,  whether  of  newly 
awakened  insects  or  some  faint  wind  stirring  in  the 
tops  of  the  beeches,  birches,  pines  and  elms  and  oaks, 
it  would  be  hard  to  say.  But  you  do  not  go  far  till 
you  are  assured  of  signs  of  life.  There  a  tiny  rabbit, 
with  that  significant  white  tuft  of  a  tail,*  scurries  into 


THE   RUSTIC   BRIDGE. 

its  hole ;  anon  a  wood-pigeon,  disturbed  by  unwonted 
footsteps,  flies  high  up  overhead  with  a  whirr,  and 
startles  the  pheasants  not  far  off.  Your  entrance, 

*  The  reason  why  the  point  of  the  rabbit's  tail  always  remains  white 
is  the  same  as  the  reason  why  the  point  of  the  tail  in  some  other  animals, 
such  as  th6  ermine  (which  changes  its  coat)  always  remains  black.  It  is  to 
enable  the  young  one  to  see  its  parents  on  a  surface  the  same  colour  as 
their  fur,  though  no  doubt  other  eyes  than  those  of  the  young  ones  some- 
times see  it  too,  and  make  profit  by  it. 


7  6  My    Wood. 


indeed,  much  to  your  chagrin,  if  you  are  a  true  lover 
of  nature's  quiet  and  shy  recesses,  is  a  signal  of  danger, 
your  footsteps  are  awakeners  of  fear,  your  advances 
heralds  of  alarm,  telegraphed,  as  it  would  seem,  from 
point  to  point  before  you.  Nowhere  hardly  could  one 
feel  more  oppressed,  as  it  were,  in  realising  the  truth 
of  Robert  Burns's  sympathetic  words  : — 

"  I'm  truly  sorry  man's  dominion 
Has  broken  Nature's  social  union, 
And  justifies  that  ill  opinion 

That  makes  them  startle 
At  me,  their  poor  earth-born  companion 

And  fellow  mortal." 

The  wood  lies  along  a  kind  of  slope,  broken  up  here 
and  there  in  its  lower  sweeps  (probably  by  mould 
or  turf  having  been  dug  out  in  old  days)  into  rough 
irregular  terraces,  or  crescents  more  correctly,  and  in 
the  protecting  shelter  of  the  higher  ridges  so  formed 
there  are  to  be  found  colonies  of  the  delicate  white 
hyacinth,  clustering  together,  like  a  group  of  shy  girls, 
as  if  they. eschewed  more  common  haunts  or  coarser 

neighbours, 
and  preferred 
their  own  soci- 

*  *A  **  ety  ;     virginal, 

pure,  the  most 
ideal  of  wild 
flowers.  Truly, 
the  white  hyacinth  is  the  lady  of  the  woods,  if  there 
ever  was  one,  with  all  the  airy  purity  and  soft  shy 
graceful  retiring  mien  of  maidenhood.  One  could 
almost  imagine,  as  one  muses  over  their  chaste  and 
inexpressible  beauty,  their  pure  and  ideal  outlines, 
that  nature  had  made  them  to  show  how  plastic  and 


Natures    Tints.  77 


sculpturesque  she  could  be ;  and  how,  if  she  were  so 
minded,  she  could  make  simple  purity  and  transparency 
do  the  work  of  colour.  A  faint  light,  as  of  sunshine 
left  there,  as  if  caught  by  some  affinity  with  itself,  like 
some  pleasing  memory  on  a  maiden's  face,  shines 
through  them ;  the  white  is,  after  all,  only  a  medium ; 
and  when  you  look  carefully  you  find  suggestions  of 
some  faint  indescribable  colour,  just  as  traces  of  veins 
will  be  found  under  the  fairest  skin,  and  the  bluer 
under  the  fairer  skin,  as  we  all  know  from  the  phrase 
"  blue  blood."  Look  closely  into  the  purest,  whitest- 
seeming,  and  ethereal  of  snowdrops,  and  you  will 
perceive  the  most  delicate  tint  of  pink  along  the  tips  of 
the  leaves  of  the  flower,  as  though  some  subtler  kind  of 
blood  were  coursing  there,  and  came  the  nearer  to  an 
indescribably  faint  blush  as  you  looked  into  it.  Nature 
does  not  do  much  in  positive  tones,  but  mingles  and 
combines  them  with  the  most  artistic  perception,  if  one 
may  say  so,  and  delights  in  unexpected  half-tones  and 
middle  tints. 

In  this  lower  part  of  my  wood,  intruding  into  the 
middle  distance,  are  thickly  dotted  clumps  of  wild 
hazels,  their  tassels  and  buds  shining  greenly  where 
they  are  caught  by  the  rays  of  the  sun  that  steal 
through  the  higher  branches ;  and  in  the  opener  spaces 
wild  anemones  are  thick  as  a  carpet,  with  their  soft 
starlike  flowers  nodding  over  the  green  of  their  leaves  ; 
they  are  in  reality  of  a  pinkish  shade,  but  look  white 
at  a  distance.  Higher  still,  upon  the  smoother  slope, 
the  blue  hyacinths,  as  being  abler  to  fight  their  own 
battle,  have  possession,  and  are  so  thick  that  as  you 
look  upon  them  from  the  lower  ground,  it  might  seem 
as  though  a  bit  of  sky  had  fallen  on  the  earth  and 
remained  there,  the  more  that  a  kind  of  indescribable 


78  My    Wood. 


thin  mist  seems  to  hover  over  the  belt.  To  what  this 
is  due  is  a  problem.  The  day  is  clear,  the  sun  shining, 
and  the  dew  of  the  morning  is  mostly  gone;  though 
here,  truth  to  tell,  from  the  overspreading  branches  of 
the  loftier  trees  which  let  in  the  sun's  rays  only  in 
breaks  and  glimpses,  there  is  always  a  sense  as  of 
something  dewy,  moist,  and  sweet,  to  which  the  sense 
of  misty  atmosphere  above  this  carpet  of  blue  may  be 
owing.  But  I  cannot  be  quite  certain  of  anything  but 
the  effect. 

I  am  quite  aware,  of  course,  of  the  fact  that  this  effect 
is  attributed  to  shadows  cast  by  certain  leaves  ;  but 
this  leaves  the  problem  exactly  where  it  was,  since  it 
is  hard  to  see  why  certain  shades  of  green  in  leaves 
should  cast  blue  shadows.  The  most  exhaustive  state- 
ment of  the  law  would  not  in  any  way  lessen  the  sur- 
prise and  mystery  of  the  effect  when  seen  again  after 
a  lapse  of  years. 

Scarce  anything  could  be  at  once  more  fascinating 
and  pleasing  to  the  eye.  The  fancy  reinforces  the 
sentiment  that  sky  and  earth  are  married  here  under 
some  indescribable  and  mysterious  ritual.  But  as  we 
approach  and  examine  more  closely,  we  find  that  some- 
thing of  the  effect  is  due  to  subtle  variations  of  shade, 
which  are,  however,  much  more  marked  than  might 
be  believed.  The  general  effect,  looking  from  a  dis- 
tance, is  that  of  sky ;  but,  as  in  all  nature's  finer  efforts, 
this  is  due  to  the  presence  of  mingling  shades,  gra- 
duating through  the  finest  chords,  and  all  in  perfect 
harmony.  The  bells,  at  their  first  unfolding,  are  like 
purple  spikes,  that  seem  to  delight  in  shade  (and  give 
to  or  borrow  from  it — one  can  scarce  say  which — an 
indefinite  kind  of  atmosphere),  up  to  the  palest  blue  in 
the  more  perfect  flowers  ;  and  the  lush  green  of  the 


Blue  and  Gold!  79 


grass,  like  the  finest  of  backgrounds,  may  only  empha- 
sise the  effect  of  unity  and  harmony.  We  all  know 
what  effects  are  secured  by  painters  through  laying 
their  semi-transparent  colours  over  darker  and  more 
opaque  ones.  Nature  clearly  has  forestalled  the  artist 
here,  and  does  the  same  in  many  of  her  finest  arrange- 
ments and  harmonies. 

In  plots  in  the  more  shaded  parts,  and  often  nestling 
close  to  the  roots  of  certain  trees,  grow  primroses  in 
thick  tufts  and  clusters ;  for  it  is,  above  all,  a  grega- 
rious flower,  and  the  wild  violets  seem  everywhere  to 
sidle  up  to  the  primroses  ;  and  just,  as  sometimes  it 
appears,  as  though  beauties  in  society  pair  so  as  to  set 
off  each  other's  charms  to  the  best  advantage,  so  one 
might  fancy  that  some  such  idea  determines  the  asso- 
ciation of  primroses  and  wild  violets.  And  even 
among  the  primroses — though  to  not  a  few  even  of 
those  who  live  in  the  country,  Wordsworth's  lines  on 
Peter  Bell  would  apply — 

"  A  primrose  by  the  river's  brim 
A  yellow  primrose  was  to  him, 
And  it  was  nothing  more  ;  "- 

Even  among  the  primroses,  we  say,  if  you  look  well, 
you  will  find  a  gentle  variation  of  depth  of  tint  such 
as  will  perhaps  surprise  you.  They  vary  from  the 
palest  yellow  or  straw  colour  up  almost  to  the  yellow 
of  sulphur,  and  the  sense  of  unity  and  satisfaction  to 
the  eye  in  the  mass  may,  to  some  extent,  be  due  to  this. 
Blue  and  gold  !  The  colours  of  the  stars  and  the 
sky  !  Well  might  the  poet  sing  of  the  flowers  as  the 
stars  of  earth — if  he  had  only  more  emphatically  cele- 
brated the  sky  of  earth,  which  the  violets  and  the 
hyacinths  are ! 


8o  My    Wood. 


In  the  middle  of  my  wood  is  a  piece  of  water,  fed  by 
numerous  tiny  rillets,  with  willows,  wild  bullaces,  and 
an  ash  or  two,  surrounding  and  hemming  it  in  so 
closely  that,  save  in  the  very  centre,  and  when  the  sun 
is  high,  the  water  is  dark  and  cold  looking.  But  the 
smaller  water-lily  grows  in  it,  and  irises — lovely  in 
their  season — shoot  up  and  supply  provision  for  the 
water-voles  which  have  their  homes  here.  The  frog- 
bit  and  the  water-crowfoot  in  season  gather  and  spread 
there  in  drifts  of  snow,  and  the  yellow  ranunculus  con- 
tests with  them  the  place  of  honour,  looking  forth  with 
its  golden  eye  set  as  if  in  its  very  heart.  The  spot  is 
utterly  lonely,  seldom  does  a  footstep  pass  that  way ; 
so  lonely  is  it,  indeed,  that  one  might  fancy  it  was  just 
such  another  spot  as  that  in  which  Thurtell  and  Weare 
threw  their  victim. 

A  broken,  ragged  bit  of  hedge  runs  along^  the  higher 
side  of  this  lonely  pond,  and  the  speedwell  spreads 
along  it,  and  the  white  starwort  looks  forth  pure,  but 
as  if  with  inquiry,  and  the  forget-me-not  follows,  and 
white  marguerites,  and  corn-flowers  and  poppies  bloom 
in  their  season  with  the  richest  effect,  for  it  lies  on  the 
side  nearest  to  the  corn-fields  beyond,  and  draws  some- 
thing from  them. 

If  you  ascend  to  the  top  of  the  slope  here  you  catch 
a  glimpse  of  the  distant  church  tower  of  Frating, 
rising  so  nicely  amidst  its  trees  on  the  height — very 
picturesque  and  beautiful. 

The  tiny  water-shrews,  which  you  have  to  wait  and 
lie  very  silently  even  to  see,  are  always  active  here- 
about, whether  you  see  them  or  not.  Though  gay  and 
playful,  they  are  so  cautious  and  shy,  that,  unless  you 
are  very  watchful  indeed,  you  may  never  notice  them, 
even  though  looking  on  the  banks  or  in  the  water 


Water-  Shrews. 


81 


where  they  are.  Yet  their  mode  of  propulsion  in  the 
water  is  peculiar,  depending  mostly  on  the  hind  legs, 
the  feet  of  which,  unlike  those  of  the  voles,  have  the 
nicest  arrangement  in  the  way  of  a  fringe  of  strong 
hairs  to  help  them,  and  a  similar  fringe  is  found  on  the 
lower  surface  of  the  tail.  But  they  go  with  a  kind  of 
irregular  swaying  motion,  as  they  use  the  hind  feet 
alternately  in  pushing  themselves  along,  and,  when 
closely  seen,  have  a  somewhat  peculiar  shape  in  the 


WATER-SHREW. 


water,  owing  to  the  skin  of  the  flanks  widening  and 
flattening  out.  The  water-shrew's  fur  is  sleek  and 
soft,  of  a  warm  brownish  colour,  with  occasional 
silver  hairs  and  a  silvery  belly,  which  give  it  a  very 
bright  glistening  appearance  when  it  conies  fresh  from 
the  water.  They  are  easily  recognised  by  their  long 
snout  arid  a  peculiarly  musty  odour. 

Unlike  the  voles,  again,  they  are  carnivorous,  and  eat 
almost  anything,  but  are  very  partial  to  small  water 

F 


82  My   Wood. 


insects,  and  are  apt  at  turning  over  little  stones,  &c., 
to  find  the  tiny  crustaceans  underneath.  Some  say  they 
do  this  nimbly  under  the  water  at  the  bottom,  and 
assert  that  they  have  seen  them  do  so,  a  privilege,  I 
must  confess,  that  I  have  not  enjoyed,  though  I  quite 
believe  it  to  be  accurate.  Very  possibly  the  water-voles 
are  often  blamed  for  their  depredations  on  the  eggs  of 
fish.  The  superstitions  about  the  shrews,  both  land 
and  water-shrews,  are  very  numerous :  one  of  them 
was  that  if  a  cow  had  been  touched  or  run  over  by  a 
shrew  it  was  sure  to  die,  and  the  only  means  to  pre- 
vent this  was  to  bury  a  living  shrew  in  a  hole  in  the 
ash-tree,  and  then  a  twig  from  that  tree,  or  even  a  few 
leaves  from  it,  was  held  to  work  a  cure. 

The  water-shrews  are  perhaps  the  most  playful  of 
all  our  small  animals.  Old  and  young  in  the  warm 
afternoons  turn  out,  and  describe  the  funniest  circles, 
chasing  each  other,  turning  over  each  other,  and  in- 
dulging in  half-a-hundred  of  the  maddest  pranks. 
The  young  ones  are  not  by  any  means  the  foremost  in 
these  romps.  They  seem  thoroughly  to  believe  in  the 
maxim  that  "  all  work  and  no  play  makes  Jack  a  dull 
boy."  They  are  certainly  not  dull.  They  even  carry 
their  gambols  into  the  water,  and  will  sometimes  have 
the  nicest  races,  or  it  may  be  games  of  "touch,"  when 
the  young  ones  will  suddenly  duck  and  disappear,  only 
to  be  followed  by  the  pursuers,  and  when  they  come 
to  the  surface  again  the  game  is  renewed — only  those 
who  had  been  pursued  in  the  former  bout  are  now  the 
pursuers.  But  if  ever  you  are  privileged  to  witness 
this  unique  and  pretty  sight,  be  sure  you  do  not  stir, 
or  even  raise  a  hand,  or  in  an  instant  all  will  have  dis- 
appeared in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  as  though  the 
earth  had  literally  swallowed  them  up ;  for,  as  has  been 


Hedgehogs.  83 


said  already,  the  water-shrews  are  perhaps  the  shyest 
and  most  easily  frightened  of  all  our  small  fauna,  and 
they  have  the  greatest  dislike  to  any  unusual  sound,  and 
are  a  long  time  before  they  recover  from  any  fright. 

And  if  you  will  only  muster  up  courage  and  come 
back  here  at  the  twilight  hour,  you  will  see  life  indeed, 
and  know  that  nature  pauses  not,  but  has  her  constant 
relays  of  workers,  and  that  her  machinery  neither  rests 
nor  rusts,  nor  knows  any  Sabbath  day.  The  hedge- 
hogs are  numberless,  notwithstanding  the  war  waged 
against  them — the  wary,  silent,  secretive  ways  of  the 
creature,  as  well  as  its  natural  armour,  protecting  il 
from  many  of  its  enemies.  Oft  have  I,  when  walking 
here  or  near  by,  with  the  proprietor  or  gamekeeper  in 
the  evening,  seen  them  ruthlessly  slaughtered,  when 
scented  by  the  dogs  and  surprised,  as  they  ventured 
out  on  their  evening  quest  along  hedgerow,  or  down 
their  walks  in  the  wood.  Having  coiled  themselves 
up,  poor  things,  the  dogs  were  generally  at  a  dis- 
advantage, and  would  bark  and  whine  in  a  way  that 
told  only  too  well  what  excited  them ;  and  it  was  a 
point  with  my  friend  to  proceed  to  the  place,  and 
despatch  the  creatures  by  forcibly  treading  on  them 
with  his  heavy  foot,  producing  in  me,  I  confess,  a 
squeamishness  I  could  hardly  venture  to  acknowledge ; 
as,  by  doing  so,  I  would  probably  have  risked  losing 
any  little  character  for  manliness  and  sportsmanlike 
instinct  that  I  had,  for  the  poor  hedgehogs  are  credited 
with  no  end  of  sins  and  crimes — whether  with  truth  or 
not,  ,-1  cannot  say — amongst  others,  with  destroying 
eggs  of  pheasants  and  partridges,  which  is,  of  course, 
an  unpardonable  offence,  and  also  with  stealing  into 
hen  coops  and  eating  chickens,  and  sometimes  even 
biting  and  injuring  hens. 


84  My    Wood. 


A  few  late  lingering  daffodils  may  still  be  seen  near 
this  bit  of  water,  and  waver  and  gleam  in  the  light 
of  the  sun,  bending  and  beckoning,  though  no  wind 
seems  to  touch  them.  Do  they  really  move,  or  is  it  an 
illusion  of  the  eye  or  of  the  mind  ?  Anyway,  that 
discovery  of  Darwin,  that  every  part  of  every  plant  is 
constantly  making  little  circles  in  the  air,  moving  many 
times  in  every  minute,  comes  to  the  mind,  and  seems 
to  find  evidence  here.  Here  and  there,  a  tree  that  has 
been  cut  down  burgeons  afresh,  and  the  green  twigs 
that  spring  round  it  in  beautiful  circle  shine  as  if  with 
some  reflected  light,  which  you  cannot  rightly  trace  to 
its  source;  for  it  would  seem  as  though  they  were 
completely  overshaded.  The  hazels  that  have  been 
coppiced  put  on  their  airy  green,  and  whenever  you 
come  to  the  border  of  a  moister  spot  (for  water  trickles 
down  the  wood  in  wet  weather  in  many  indefinite 
courses),  there  are  a  few  oziers,  which,  as  you  attempt 
to  pass  through  them  and  push  them  apart,  by  their 
swinging  afterwards  to  and  fro  for  a  short  while, 
recall  Mrs.  Barrett  Browning's  fine  image  in  "  Lady 
Geraldine's  Courtship  " : — 

"  The  book  lay  open,  and  my  thought  flew  from  it,  taking  from  it 
A  vibration  and  impulsion  to  an  end  beyond  its  own, 
As  the  branch  of  a  green  osier,  when  a  child  would  overcome  it, 
Springs  up  freely  from  its  claspings,  and  goes  swinging  in  the 
sun." 

Along  these  watercourses  always,  except  in  long 
periods  of  dry  weather,  more  or  less  moist,  are  alders, 
sallows,  and  here  and  there  a  willow.  It  is  almost 
incredible  the  rapid  growth  of  some  of  these.  The 
hazel-stubs,  dotted  in  here  and  there,  have  their  own 
story  to  tell  of  progress,  marked  to  the  eye  by  the 
difference  of  bark  in  the  yearling  shoots — some  of 


Coppices.  85 


them  six  feet  or  so  in  length,  straight  and  beautifully 
regular,  tapering,  like  a  fine  fishing-rod  top,  with  a 
grey  greenish  dusty  lustre  upon  them,  which  they 
lose  when  they  develop  branches  in  their  second  year. 
It  is  these  yearling  hazel  twigs,  taken  just  where  they 
fork  with  each  other,  which  are  used  for  divining 
purposes ;  and  my  friend  to  whom  this  wood  belongs, 
though  a  very  practical  man,  is  inclined  to  believe 
there  is  something  in  it.  Held  in  a  horizontal  position 
by  the  skilled  operator,  they  tremble  and  vibrate,  and 
dip  downward  when  right  over  springs,  however  deep.* 
The  hazel  stems  or  twigs  lose  their  sensitiveness  and 
power  in  indicating  the  presence  of  springs  when  they 
have  grown  older,  but  are  profitable  for  thatching  and 
other  purposes.  There  are  many  groups  of  stubs  of 
ash  and  alder  much  in  request  in  the  making  of 
hurdles  and  such  purposes.  My  friend  tells  me  that 
in  well-arranged  and  well-kept  woods,  with  partially 
open  spaces,  free  or  comparatively  free  from  larger 
trees,  where  these  can  be  grown  successfully,  the  yield 
is  more  profitable  than  that  of  arable  land,  amounting 
to  something  like  £j  or  even  £8  an  acre,  so  that 
woods  are  not  only  ornamental  but  profitable ;  here, 
as  in  so  many  other  things,  beauty  and  use  going 
hand-in-hand  together.  Here  and  there  we  see, 

*  This,  too,  it  may  be  remarked,  is  one  of  the  few  points  on  which 
De  Quincey  was  not  quite  accurate.  In  his  note  on  "  Rhabdomaney," 
to  "Opium  Confessions,"  p.  291  (Masson's  edition),  he  writes:  "The 
remedy  is  to  call  in  a  set  of  local  rhabdomantists  [to  divine  for  water]. 
These  men  traverse  the  adjacent  ground,  holding  the  willow  rod 
horizontally.  Wherever  that  dips  or  inclines  itself  spontaneously  to 
the  ground,  there  will  be  found  water  ; "  and  the  same  thing  is  repeated 
in  "Modern  Superstition."  The  willow  may  be  used,  but  the  hazel  is 
the  usual,  and  is  accepted  as  the  more  powerful  medium.  De  Quincey, 
like  my  friend,  though  on  definite  Baconian  principles,  was  inclined  to 
believe  there  "was  something  in  it." 


86  My   Wood. 


through  the  network  of  branches,  the  bole  of  an  oak 
which  looks  white  and  hoary,  as  though  it  had  been 
dusted  with  whitish  powder.  This  is  the  sign  of  age, 
and  a  suggestion  to  the  woodman  to  operate ;  for  oaks, 
like  men,  do  turn  grey  with  age. 

There  is  a  birch,  queen  of  the  woods  in  very  truth, 
beginning  to  put  forth  the  first  tender  tresses,  to  grow 
luxuriantly  in  the  summer;  and  the  bark  seems  to 
brighten  and  shine  responsive,  with  a  flicker  in  a 
wavering  silvery  lustre,  lightly  dappled  with  gold,  as 
the  rays  of  the  sun  steal  in  and  fall,  now  and  then, 
in  patches  full  upon  it.  The  proprietor  has  shown 
his  taste  and  skill  in  dotting  in  here  and  there  these 
lovely  trees ;  but  like  a  delicate  family,  they  are  apt 
to  succumb  to  rough  treatment,  and  here  and  there 
you  see  that  they  have  been  blown  down.  Sometimes, 
even  in  the  prone  condition,  the  tree  will  continue  to 
draw  from  the  portion  of  the  root  still  in  earth  sus- 
tenance sufficient  to  sustain  its  leaves,  a  parable  of 
life  in  some  of  its  most  touching  aspects,  of  the  dis- 
appointed, the  fallen,  the  degraded,  who  still  draw 
as  much  of  strength  from  their  native  soil  as  to  put 
forth  green  leaves  of  hope  and  cheer,  though  so  sadly 
down  in  the  world  and  deserted. 

The  ashes  are  often  spoken  of  as  though  they  were 
slow  to  display  their  charms,  and  we  cannot  help  re- 
calling Lord  Tennyson's  beautiful  sentiment  in  that, 
perhaps,  loveliest  of  his  songs  in  "  The  Princess  "  : — 

"  Why  llngereth  she  to  clothe  her  heart  with  love, 
Delaying  as  the  tender  ash  delays, 
To  clothe  herself  when  all  the  woods  are  green." 

But  the  ash  has  been  declared  in  mild  seasons  here 
to  be  in  full  flower  early  in  April ;  and  it  is  certainly  not 


Ask  and  Oak.  87 


always  tender  in  popular  legend  and  folk-lore.  The 
irregularity  of  its  blossoming  has  found  record  in 
popular  rhyme,  which  bases  on  it  a  weather  forecast. 

"  If  the  oak's  before  the  ash 

Then  we're  sure  to  have  a  splash  ; 
If  the  ash  comes  'fore  the  oak, 
Then  we're  sure  to  have  a  soak." 

It  is  pre-eminently  the  tree  of  weird  fear  and  charm. 
It  is  a  lightning-tree  very  often  to  be  avoided.  It  is 
to  be  conciliated  only  by  certain  dues. 

"  Beware  the  ash, 
It  counts  the  flash," 

is  an  ancient  saw,  in  which  the  old  idea  of  the  lightning 
tree  survives.  Then  it  surrenders  its  charm.  Amid 
the  tree-myths,  we  find  that  some  of  the  early  men 
traced  descent  from  it,  and  used  it  as  their  totem ;  so 
it  is  a  tree  to  be  reverenced  as  well  as  feared.  Dr. 
George  MacDonald,  in  that  fine  romance  "  Phantastes," 
where,  without  learned  pretension,  he  plays  fancifully 
with  a  great  many  such  ideas,  has  this,  among  many 
other  things,  about  the  ash,  put  into  the  mouth  of  the 
fairy  mother  :— 

"  Trust  the  Oak,"  said  she,  "  trust  the  Oak  and  the 
Elm  and  the  great  Beech.  Take  care  of  the  Birch, 
for  though  she  is  honest,  she  is  too  young  not  to  be 
changeable.  But  shun  the  Ash  and  the  Alder;  for  the 
Ash  is  an  ogre.  You  will  know  him  by  his  thick 
fingers ;  and  the  Alder  will  smother  you  with  her  web 
of  hair,  if  you  let  her  near  you  at  night." 

The  whole  romance  is  in  this  spirit,  and  the  fairy 
needs  to  give  the  hero  a  charm  against  the  ash  :— 

"  But  now  I  must  tie  some  of  my  hair  about  you, 
and  then  the  Ash  will  not  touch  you." 


88  My    Wood. 

This  charm  compelled  the  ash  to  be  not  only  friendly, 
but  to  surrender  its  charm  for  protection  and  aid. 

The  fateful  powers  of  trees,  too,  more  particularly 
the  ashes,  are  fabled  to  be  more  active  by  night  than 
by  day ;  and  in  a  wood  at  night,  when  not  only  the 
"  tranced  senators  of  mighty  woods,"  but  the  smallest 
plant  and  bush,  seem  to  whisper  mysteriously,  there 
is  no  room  to  wonder  at  this,  though,  perhaps,  it  was 
only  an  old-world  way  of  signifying  that  nature  in 
none  of  her  phases  of  activity  ever  sleeps. 

And  nature  truly  knows  no  death.  See  how  the  ivy 
has  made  a  pillar  of  the  stump  of  that  old  pollarded 
willow,  that  shows  something  of  grace  even  in  its 
lopped  and  desolate  condition,  with  something  like  a 
ring  of  rubies  round  the  outer  edge  of  the  stump — the 
first  signs  of  the  new  shoots  that  by-and-by  will  adorn 
it.  Nature's  secret  is  to  transform  all  decay  and  dis- 
location into  new  beauty  ;  and,  as  she  runs  through 
the  cycle  of  the  year,  to  cover  up,  soften,  smooth 
down,  and  to  weave  a  glory  round  all  disorder  and 
dismemberment  and  death.  At  the  foot  of  certain  of 
the  trees  later  on  will  grow  the  loveliest  of  fungi,  that 
sometimes  contest  their  right  with  ground  ivy  and 
wood  sorrel — fungi  of  the  most  beautiful  colours  :  pearl- 
coloured,  fawn,  purply-pink,  and  flesh-coloured.  Not 
edible ;  ah  !  no  :  they  are  rankly  poisonous  mostly, 
these  agaric  children  of  the  woods,  and  their  radiant 
colours  are  only  put  on  to  warn. 

Often  as  I  have  moved  along  here  at  different 
seasons  I  have  noticed  on  a  branch  a  little  patch  of 
glimmering  pearl-like  lustre,  just  as  though  some  one 
had  set  a  jewel  there,  which  had  been  made  by  a 
very  skilful  artist,  some  fourteen  or  fifteen  spiral  rows 
running  from  the  centre  outwards.  You  go  and  touch 


Wonderful  Little  Artists.  89 

them,  and  find  that  they  feel  like  a  part  of  the  tree. 
Is  it  some  wonderful  exudation,  then,  as  resin  from  the 
fir  ?  No ;  these  are  the  eggs  of  the  lackey  moth, 
which  shows  its  skill  in  arrangement,  and  its  wonderful 
farsightedness.  It  attaches  these  pseudo-pearls  one  by 
one  to  the  twig,  as  it  produces  them  by  means  of  a 
powerful  gum  it  secretes ;  and  when  it  has  finished  its 
work  it  runs  this  same  gum  in  between  the  rows,  so 
that  they  are  at  once  safe  against  the  frosts  of  winter 
and  the  efforts  of  enemies.  You  try  to  pull  them  off. 
Well,  no ;  you  cannot  do  it.  The  name  often  given  to 
them  by  country  folk  is  "  bracelets."  Wonderful  little 
artist  the  lackey  moth  !  And  the  vapourer  moth  does 
the  same,  though  not  so  artistically. 

And  yet  this  is  no  more  wonderful  than  the  craft  of 
some  other  moths  in  covering  their  eggs  with  down  or 
hair  stripped  from  their  own  bodies.  Some,  before 
they  lay  their  eggs,  make  thus  a  fine  felting  of  hair  on 
which  to  lay  them,  and  then  they  construct  the  neatest 
little  thatch  roof  of  hairs  to  cover  them.  And  notice 
this,  that  in  laying  the  felt  which  is  to  be  under  the 
eggs,  they  turn  about  the  hairs  anyhow,  but  for  the 
roof  the  hairs  are  arranged  exactly  like  straw  in  a 
thatch,  so  that  all  water  may  run  off.  And  all  this  we 
slump  under  the  name  of  instinct ! 

Squirrels  work  their  way  across  my  wood,  and  dodge 
and  show  their  acuteness  in  finding  the  trees  where  the 
bark  is  most  of  a  colour  with  their  fur.  If  you  follow 
them  too  persistently  for  their  liking,  they  will  at  last 
look  down  and  squeak  defiance  at  you  in  the  shrillest 
key,  like,that  of  a  magnified  mouse-squeak.  Moles  are 
active  at  parts  too,  and  amid  the  tufted  grass  in  the 
opener  spaces,  one  sometimes  almost  stumbles  over 
their  heaps.  How  is  it  that  the  mole,  whatever  the 


My   Wood. 


soil  he  works  in,  always  manages   to  turn  up  such 
deliciously  soft  powdery  earth  ? 

My  wood  is  not  always  so  silent  as  it  has  been 
to-day.  Alas,  no !  It  is  a  great  harbour  for  rabbits, 
which  find  the  rich  undergrowth  a  protection.  Periodi- 


SQU1RRELS. 

cally  there  are  rabbitings  here,  which  usually  yield  a 
good  result.  Then  all  the  normal  life  of  the  wood 
seems  to  be  disturbed,  paralysed.  Not  only  the  hunted 
rabbits,  but  the  birds  are  scared,  and  go  flying  wildly 
in  all  directions  ;  and  the  squirrels  go  bounding  off 
from  tree  to  tree  to  the  furthest  corner ;  the  jays 


Man's  Superiority.  91 


scream,  and  the  crows  left  at  home  to  guard  the  nests 
and  the  young  go  off  caw-cawing  and  protesting,  as  I 
take  it.  The  wood  is  properly  marked  off,  and  each 
party  takes  its  own  portion.  Ferrets  are  put  into  the 
holes,  and  the  dogs  are  active,  and  packs  of  boys 
gather  from  the  district  round,  and  shout  and  halloo 
and  add  to  the  uproar.  In  some  places  where  paraffine 
or  kerosine  has  been  run  into  the  rabbit-holes — a 
famous  device  for  making  short  work  in  some  places 
now-a-days — there  is  great  slaughter.  Occasionally  a 
ferret  will  "lay-up,"  as  they  say  down  here,  and  have 
to  be  dug  out,  and  spades  and  forks  are  called  into 
requisition.  One  can  only  turn  away,  lamenting  the 
necessity  that  forces  men  periodically  to  spoil  the 
idyllic  repose  of  such  a  lovely  spot,  and  to  leave  the 
most  impressive  tokens  of  their  presence  in  holes,  long 
runs,  and  heaps  of  earth,  which,  in  such  a  place — so 
seldom  trodden  of  human  foot— it  takes  a  long  time  to 
get  worn  down  and  effaced.  About  equally  exciting 
are  the  forays  against  the  poor  wood-pigeons  in  the 
early  spring  and  autumn. 

And,  as  if  permanently  to  emphasise  the  fact  of 
man's  superiority,  and  also  his,  perhaps,  pardonable 
rapacity  (for  nature  sometimes  needs  help  in  adjusting 
her  balance  so  to  keep  down  destructive  predominancy, 
all  too  corroborative  of  the  survival  of  the  least  worthy, 
if  not  of  the  fittest,  as  respects  beauty,  whatever  may 
be  said  of  use),  here  and  there  one  comes  on  little  huts 
roughly  formed  of  the  fallen  and  lopped  branches  of 
trees — not  so  closely  put  together  as  to  shut  out  the 
light,  yet  closely  enough  to  afford  complete  concealment 
and  shelter  to  gamekeeper  and  sportsman,  either  when 
watching  poachers  by  night  or  intent  on  securing  some 
specimens  of  very  shy  and  retiring  creatures.  In  the 


92 


My    Wood. 


midst  of  life  here,  too,  we  are  in  death,  or,  at  any 
rate,  amidst  the  means  of  it.  Often  have  I  lain  in 
one  of  these  huts,  later  in  the  season,  stretched  com- 
fortably on  a  soft  carpet  of  dried  moss,  and  leaves  and 
grass,  and — far  from  murderous  thoughts  intent — have 
watched,  unseen,  the  ordinary  goings-on  of  life  around 
me  in  this  sylvan  paradise. 

One  deprivation   this   kind  of  pleasant   ordeal  has 
however,  it   is  that  no  tobacco  must  be  indulged  in. 


WOODED  SCENE  WITH   HUT. 

You  light  your  pipe,  and  instantly  the  charm  is  gone. 
These  wild  creatures  are  not  only  quick  but  suspicious 
— the  slightest  fading  curl  of  smoke,  the  least  strange 
scent  on  the  air,  and  you  are  left  to  regret  the  lack  of 
good  company.  Even  in  a  walk  through  a  wood,  or 
by  a  hedgerow,  the  pipe  in  your  mouth  is  an  additional 
warning  which  the  wild  things  not  only  note,  but  are 
smart  to  telegraph  onwards  before  you.  "  No  tobacco 
smoking  allowed  "  must  be  the  motto. 

So  cool,  so  shaded  is  the  hut,  with  such  a  sense  of 


Wood-Pigeons. 


93 


RING   DOVE   OR   WOOD-PIGEON. 


soft  retirement  and  secrecy,  that  one  could  not  help 
falling  into  a  Robinson-Crusoe  mood — a  kind  of  middle 
mood  between  primitive  ease  and  restful  indifferency, 
and  the  curiosity  bred  of  civilisation  and  science,  which 
could  not  be  set  aside.  The  wood-doves  would  some- 
times descend  and  sit- 
on  the  hut  close  above 
me,  and  talk  to  each 
other  in  that  confiding 
full-hearted  goo-goo- 
gooing  language  of 
theirs,  and  shed  a  soft 
feather  or  two  that 
would  cling  to  the  dry 
wood  for  days;  the 
jays  would  intrude — 
the  mischief-makers 
that  they  are — chattering  and  scolding  near  by,  as  if, 
like  interfering  gossips  and  scandal-loving  neighbours, 
they  could  not  let  a  little  love-affair  pass  without  an 
unseemly  interruption  and  rude  comment  on  it,  and 
many  derogatory  remarks ;  the  rooks  busy  in  their 
nests  would  startle  the  silence  with  a  caw-caw  to  a 
companion,  intimating  something  still  to  be  attended 
to ;  and  a  solitary  bee,  attracted  by  one  knows  not 
what,  would  come  boldly  bumming  into  the  shadowy 
shelter  and  settle,  apparently  seeking  for  something, 
one  could  not  guess  what,  and  show  no  hurry  to  go 
away  either.  Slouching,  black,  beady-eyed  rats  have 
sometimes  peered  in,  but  with  that  quickness  of  sense 
characteristic  of  them,  soon  smelt  the  presence  of  some- 
thing unusual,  and  were  off;  and  the  weasel,  too,  with 
its  twining  gliding  walk  (as  though  it  had  a  snake  for 
a  spinal  cord,  which,  perhaps,  it  has),  and  with  pink 


94 


My    Wood. 


eyes,  peering,  hungry,  remorseless,  has  sometimes 
entered — perhaps  with  an  eye  to  Mr.  Rat — and  startled 
me;  and  then  with  the  sharpest  thinnest  cry  on  earth 
— something  between  a  squeak  and  a  hiss — has  quietly 
turned  and  disappeared,  when  I  stirred  to  warn  it  off. 
The  silence  and  restfulness  of  my  wood  is  only  em- 
phasised by  all  this  gentle  language  and  movement 
common  and  normal  to  it. 

Yes;  moments  of  complete  silence  supervene  now 
and  then  on  these  various  voices.  "  Waiting  for  the 
next  thing "  is  then  the  feeling  that  abides  with  me. 
Hush  !  hark  !  there  comes  a  something  worth  waiting  for 
— the  sweetest  note— soft,  rich,  mellow;  now  piercing 
clear,  now  falling  sweet  as  the  subdued  murmur  of 
falling  water.  Is  that  the  nightingale  ?  one  might 
question,  for  it  is  a  very  common  error  to  suppose  that 

the  nightingale 
does  not  sing  by 
day.  But  no,  it 
is  not.  It  is  the 
beautiful,  shy, 
little  garden- 
warbler  discours- 
ing his  sweet 
music  from  the 
top  of  the  tree 
he  loves.  He  is 
a  migrant  and 
comes  late,  with 

his  wealth  of  sweet  music  to  add  to  nature's  choir. 
What  is  it  Tennyson  sings  ?  "  All  precious  things 
discovered  late ; "  for  discovered  read  "  arriving,"  and 
it  applies  to  the  garden-warbler.  A  shy  bird,  yet  he 
haunts  the  abodes  of  men,  and  is  often  driven  from 


GARDEN    WARBLEK. 


The  Garden    Warbler.  95 

them  by  intrusive  companions,  and  retreats  to  the 
deepest  recesses  of  the  woods,  as  he  has  done  now,  to 
enjoy  himself  in  quietude.  Perhaps  his  partner  is  near 
by,  building  a  soft  little  nest  in  place  of  the  deserted 
one,  where  the  eggs  have  been  handled — four  or  five 
greenish-white  eggs,  spotted  brown  or  yellow.  Though 
he  loves  to  sit  high  when  singing,  he  builds  low  in  a 
little  bush,  or  even  amid  rank  herbage  not  far  from  a 
tree's  foot.  The  nest  is  rough-made  of  tough  grasses, 
interwoven  with  wool,  hair,  and  fine  fibres  loosely 
shaken-in  forming  the  lining.  The  garden-warbler  is 
a  fine  grub  and  insect-killer,  only  when  the  fruit  is 
ripe  indulging  himself  a  little ;  and,  on  the  whole, 
deserving  entertainment  and  that  little  indulgence  for 
the  earlier  service  he  does.  But  he  is  being  hunted 
off  the  face  of  the  earth ;  at  all  events  he  is  becoming 
scarcer,  save  in  a  very  few  favoured  localities.  He 
deserves  this  good  word  for  the  sweet  song  he  has 
sung  to  me,  and  I  must  not  spoil  it  now  by  dwelling 
on  any  other.  But  I  must  not  move,  else  he  will  be 
off,  and  I  may  yet  have  another  sweet  little  shower  of 
song.  I  will  wait  quietly  and  see  and  hear. 


IV. 
THE  DELIGHTS  OF  HEDGEROWS. 


HAT  a  delight  and  how  rich  a  sub- 
ject of  investigation  is  the  smallest 
bit  of  hedgerow !  To  my  joy,  at 
the  bottom  of  my  garden,  separat- 
ing it  from  the  nearest  wheat-field,  is  a  beech  hedge, 
instead  of  any  more  effective  enclosure  in  the  shape  of 
fence  or  wall.  I  really  would  miss  much  in  the  interest 
I  have  in  this  corner  of  mine  were  there  a  high  wall 
here  in  place  of  this  hedge.  The  hedge,  however  thick, 
is  still  but  an  airy  screen  or  veil  which  half  hides  and 
half  reveals  the  life  without  and  stimulates  curiosity. 
It  is  all  living,  breathing,  constantly  changing,  if  you 
look  well,  and  sounds  like  a  wind-harp  to  the  wind. 
It  refines  the  view  beyond,  and  does  not  really  inter- 
rupt or  close  it ;  and  you  can  feel  the  pulse  of  life,  as 
it  were,  stirring  in  it.  Birds  pass  through  it  almost 
as  free  as  the  wind,  weave  their  nests  in  it,  and  near-by 
sit  and  discourse  the  sweetest  music,  morning,  noon, 
and  eve.  It  does  not  shut  off,  but  kindly  encloses; 
giving  free  let  to  all  the  sweeter  winds,  even  refining 
and  scenting  them,  while  it  tames  down  and  breaks  the 
force  of  the  fiercer  and  colder  winds,  and  takes  the 
sting  from  the  frosts  of  winter. 

A  volume  might  be  written  on  hedgerows  cultivated 

96 


Natural  Trellises.  97 


and  uncultivated ;  beech,  privet,  blackthorn,  redthorn, 
ivy,  sycamore,  holly,  laurel,  and  the  rest,  for  each  has 
not  only  its  own  characteristics  from  a  practical  or 
agricultural  point  of  view,  but  its  specific  interest  from 
a  picturesque  or  natural  history  point  of  view.  As  for 
an  evergreen  hedge,  what  better  symbol  of  homely 
protection  could  you  have  ?  As  it  grows  and  grows,  it 
weaves,  as  it  were,  an  outer  nest  round  a  dwelling,  close, 
kindly,  familiar,  and  compact  as  a  wall,  with  a  whole 
world  of  breathing  consciousness  about  it.  What 
were  England  without  its  hedgerows  that  give  an 
individuality  and  distinctive  countenance  to  every  field, 
which  they  at  once  beautify  and  shelter  from  the  frosty 
winds  of  winter,  and  from  the  fierce  burning  heats  of 
summer?  They  present  to  the  careful  observer  in  a  kind 
of  epitome,  the  life  of  the  district  in  which  he  may  be. 
He  cannot  be  far  out  for  study  if  he  is  near  a  bit 
of  hedgerow.  They  are  natural  trellises  for  wonderful 
climbers  and  creepers  as  beautiful  as  the  vines  of  Italian 
climes,  and  they  gather  the  fairest  of  our  wild  flowers 
to  shelter  under  them.  As  for  the  former,  think  of  the 
convolvulus,  white  and  pink,  and  of  the  honeysuckle, 
and  of  the  sweetbriar  or  eglantine!  How  the  May  in 
its  season  spreads  its  blooming  clusters,  as  has  been 
said,  like  a  bride's  train,  and  how  the  redthorn  blushes  ! 
How  the  bryony  creeps  arid  peeps,  and,  as  other 
beauties  fade  and  pass,  still  wreathes  its  festoons 
and  puts  out  its  brilliant  berries !  How  the  elder 
spreads  its  creamy  flowers  and  shows  its  dark  berries, 
and  the  wild  hop  hangs  its  clusters  to  the  wind ! 

Then  -  for  the  wild  flowers — what  an  array  in  con- 
stant succession  !  In  the  spring,  a  grand  advance  wing, 
come  the  violet,  the  primrose,  the  speedwell,  the  celan- 
dine, herb-robert,  and  the  sweet  anemone,  drooping 

G 


The  Delights  of  Hedgerows. 


bashfully  its  white  head,  or  nodding  to  its  later-come 
neighbours,  the  blue  and  white  hyacinths  not  far 

off;  later  on, 
follow  the  cam- 
pions and  hare- 
bells, the  for- 
get -  me  -  nots, 
the  stately  fox- 
glove, with  its 
pyramids  of 
purply  pink 
bells;  and  the 
succession  is 
quite  as  full, 
and  their  array 
of  flowers  is 
quite  as  large  all  through  the  summer  and  autumn. 

"  By  ashen  roots  the  violets  blow," 

sings  the  late  Laureate,  but  the  violet  loves  other  than 
ashen  roots ;  it  is  very  fond  also  of  hazel  and  birch — 
a  fact  which  Sir  Walter  Scott  was  clear  on  when  he 
wrote — 

"  The  violet  in  her  green-wood  bower, 
Where  birchen  boughs  and  hazels  mingle." 

Hedgerows  have  thus  managed  to  assert  the  charac- 
teristic element  of  English  landscape  and  life,  and  are 
rich  in  associations.  Did  not  Mr.  Robert  Browning 
miss  the  hedgerows  of  his  native  land  amid  the  glorious 
sunshine  of  Italy ;  and  has  he  not  recorded  this  feeling 
as  with  a  lightning-flash  of  inspiration  ?  And  no  wonder, 
when  my  small  morsel  is  of  such  importance  to  me ! 
He  sings  his  song  under  the  title,  "  Home  Thoughts 
from  Abroad  " — 


The   Wise    Thrush."  99 


i. 

"  Oh,  to  be  in  England 

Now  that  April's  there  ; 
And  whoever  wakes  in  England 
Sees,  some  morning,  unaware, 
That  the  lowest  boughs  and  the  brush-wood  sheaf 
Round  the  elm-tree  bole  are  in  tiny  leaf, 
While  the  chaffinch  sings  on  the  orchard  bough 
In  England — now  ! 

II. 

And  after  April,  when  May  follows, 

And  the  whitethroat  builds,  and  all  the  swallows  : 

Hark,  where  my  blossomed  pear-tree  in  the  hedge 

Leans  to  the  field,  and  scatters  on  the  clover 
Blossoms  and  dewdrops — at  the  bent-spray's  edge — 
That's  the  wise  thrush  :  he  sings  each  song  twice  over, 
Lest  you  should  think  he  never  could  recapture 
The  first  fine  careless  rapture. 
And  though  the  fields  look  rough  with  hoary  dew, 
All  will  be  gay  when  noontide  wakes  anew 
The  buttercups,  the  little  children  dower, 
Far  brighter  than  this  gaudy  melon  flower  ! " 

What  an  exquisite  sense  of  English  bird-song  there 
is  in  these  lines ;  not  to  speak  of  the  "  wise  thrush  " 
singing  his  song  twice  over,  "  lest  you  think  he  never 
could  recapture  the  first  fine  careless  rapture/'  is  that 
reminiscence  of  the  chaffinch  not  exquisite,  "on  the 
orchard  bough/'  and  of  the  whitethroat  in  May,  with  his 
keen  varied  song — rick,  rick,  chew,  rick,  a-rue,  rick, 
rick-chew-chew-ke-rick-a-rew-rew? 

And  with  what  exquisite  grace  the  trees  in  the 
hedgerow  do  sometimes  lean  from  them  and  dip,  and 
look  over  into  the  meadow  or  field  beyond ! 

Within  my  vision,  too,  I  can  catch  a  glimpse  of  some- 
thing leaning  to  the  field,  in  the  words  of  Browning, 


ioo  The  Delights  of  Hedgerows. 

whereby  hangs  a  tale  or  a  curious  fact  or  two.  At 
the  extreme  corner  there  of  my  hedge  is  a  holly  tree 
of  some  height,  which  has  been  for  long  years  left  to 
itself,  undipped,  untrimmed,  and  hangs  at  one  side 
right  over  into  the  field.  Even  that  unwieldy  holly 
seems  to  stoop  down  to  meet  the  grass  and  clover  and 
buttercups  beneath ;  and  there  is  one  other  still  more 
peculiar  circumstance  to  note.  At  a  certain  height  it 
ceases  to  have  spines  on  the  leaves,  and  preserves 
them  more  highly  by  a  foot  or  two  on  the  side  that 
is  towards  the  field  than  on  the  other  towards  the 
house.  Can  the  plant  really  know  (from  experience  of 
years)  the  side  on  which  it  is  most  exposed  to  cattle, 
and  so  guards  itself  most  resolutely  at  the  right  point  ? 
Certainly  it  is  an  economist  and  a  soldier  in  its  own 
way — a  combination,  after  all,  not  so  common.  It 
reserves  all  its  points  of  defence  for  the  parts  where 
they  are  really  needed,  and  does  not  waste  its  powers. 
I  learn  that  Southey  alone  among  poets  has  noticed 
this  fact,  and  set  it  in  rhyme  : — 

"  Below  a  circling  fence  of  leaves  is  seen, 

Wrinkled  and  keen, 
No  grazing  cattle  through  their  prickly  round 

Can  reach  to  wound, 

But  as  they  grow  where  nothing  is  to  fear 
Smooth  and  unarmed  the  pointless  leaves  appear." 

Hedgerow  timber,  how  much  the  landscape  owes  to 
it!  How  gracefully  the  oaks  and  beeches  rise  from 
the  deepened  ridge  where  the  road  dips,  their  roots 
sometimes  showing  bare  in  gnarled  twisted  clusters 
towards  the  roadway,  such  as  Dore  often  represents 
and  Millais  magnifies !  I  have  in  my  mind  an  avenue, 
where  in  summer,  even  in  the  hottest  sun,  there  is 
from  this  cause  always  coolness  and  a  kind  of  soothing 


Hollies.  101 


repose,  like  that  which  is  found  in  a  southern  cathedral 
in  July,  when  the  light,  the  dim  religious  light, 
comes  through  coloured  glass,  old  and  mellow.  How 
often  have  I,  because  of  my  admiration  of  the  place 
and  the  effect,  lowered  myself  in  the  eyes  of  the 
peasants,  who  declaim  against  those  trees  as  "a-shuttin' 
in  the  place  so  as  'tis  never  rightly  light,  and  but 
seldom  dry,  and  allus  as  'twere  a-droppin'  o'  suthin'  or 
other — damp  leaves,  or  rain,  or  dew,  or  what  not — 
such  as  is  a'most  terrifyin'  to  delicat'  females  as  'as  to 
be  a-passin'  of  it,  partikler  in  the  dark  ?  " 

Notwithstanding  all  such  disadvantages,  I  would  not 
have  my  favourite  hedgerow  trees  cut  down.  In  some 
places  with  which  I  am  familiar,  elms  and  sycamores 
assert  their  own  dignity,  and  occasionally  a  lime  tree 
glimmers  in  its  lighter  green.  And  in  the  more  en- 
closed and  remote  parts  you  will  be  sure  to  find  due 
share  of  nuts,  especially  the  wild  hazels,  deliciously  sweet, 
and  all  the  better  for  the  rough  cuttings  the  bushes 
receive  at  the  hedger's  hands.  Hollies  are,  as  I  have 
already  hinted,  beyond  praise,  not  so  much  the  clipped 
and  trimmed  specimens  in  the  carefully  attended  to 
shrubbery,  but  the  holly  of  the  common  hedgerow. 
How  delightful  in  its  permanency,  preserving,  like  the 
truly  heroic  nature,  its  chief  charms  for  the  period  of 
trial,  when  all  else  is  stripped  and  bare,  its  red  berries 
shining  in  the  dull  light  of  winter,  or  throwing  a  faint 
rosy  tinge  on  the  snow  that  feathers  all  the  twigs 
around,  the  little  birds,  in  finding  their  dainty  but 
frugal  Breakfast,  having  with  their  sweet  breasts  cleared 
the  snow  from  the  bunches  of  fruit,  from  which  they 
have  picked  their  morning  supply. 

Then  we  must  not  forget  the  elder,  with  its  creamy 
flowers  in  summer,  and  its  bright  berries  in  later 


IO2  The  Delights  of  Hedgerows. 

autumn ;  nor  the  sloe,  with  its  clustering  flowers  and 
its  fruit,  with  that  unapproachably  delicate  purply  bloom 
in  autumn. 

And  this  suggests  another  delightful  centre  of  asso- 
ciations— the  harvest  of  the  hedgerows.  Did  you  ever, 
dear  reader,  go  a-blackberrying  in  the  sweet  days  of 
autumn,  when  the  clouds  are  high,  and  there  is  a 
delicious  clearness  in  the  air,  and  a  sense  as  of  wider 
horizons,  and  soft  expansiveness  and  ripeness  and 
warmth  around,  as  if,  to  atone  for  the  shortening  days 
and  the  more  abundant  joy  of  summer,  nature  had 
resolved  to  concentrate  all  mildness  and  sweetness  and 
variety  of  tint  into  one  sweet  hour  or  two  of  light  and 
beauty  ?  Idyllic  symplicity,  the  sense  of  close  com- 
munion with  nature,  is  easily  realised  then ;  and  even 
into  the  bucolic  mind,  little  touched  by  sentimental 
or  aesthetic  influences,  a  sense  of  poetry  will  often 
steal,  while,  at  the  same  time,  a  good  practical  end  is 
served;  for  nothing  could  be  more  wholesome  than 
the  blackberry,  which  is  indeed  in  many  forms  often 
recommended  to  invalids,  for  which  purpose  it  sells  at 
something  like  fourpence  a  quart.  It  makes  delightful 
puddings,  still  more  delightful  jam,  and  has  the  true 
wild  flavour  eaten  fresh  from  the  hedgerow. 

Some  people  are  apt  to  speak  of  the  rustic  as  utterly 
without  imagination  or  fancy ;  but  if  this  is  unquali- 
fiedly so,  how  about  the  folk-lore  and  legends  which 
are  so  common,  which  touch  more  or  less  closely  almost 
everything,  and  certainly  have  been  as  busy  with  the 
natives  of  the  hedgerow  as  with  anything  else  ?  For 
example,  in  some  places  it  is  believed  that  when  the 
blackberries  begin  to  hang  limp  and  shrunken,  the  devil 
spit  upon  them  in  his  Michaelmas  travels. 

Then  there  is  the   barberry,   not   to   be  neglected, 


The  Nutting.  103 


though  sometimes  it  is  held  suspect  as  a  propagator 
of  mildew ;  and  the  elderberry,  from  which  good  wine 
is  made ;  and  the  sloe,  from  which  is  drawn  more  deli- 
cious wine  still.  After  a  long  dusty  journey,  even  those 
who  are  in  some  things  fastidious  might  enjoy  a  glass 
of  well-kept  sloe  wine,  such  as  is  to  be  found  in  many 
a  peasant's  cottage.  And  then  we  must  not  forget  the 
wild  strawberry  nestling  among  the  grass,  and  peeping 
forth  with  its  delicious  miniature  berries.  At  the  proper 
season  old  and  young  turn  out  in  force  for  the  work  of 
picking,  and  no  more  pleasant  pictures  of  rustic  life  are 
to  be  seen  than  then.  Even  the  babies  toddle  about, 
and,  with  lips  purple  from  the  juice  of  stray  berries 
handed  to  them,  laugh  and  chuckle  and  dance  and  are 
glad,  as  it  befits  childhood  to  be.  The  farmers  are  in 
nothing  more  liberal  than  in  their  willingness  to  let 
those  who  are  known  to  them  thus  enjoy  the  harvest 
of  the  hedgerow;  but,  naturally,  they  have  a  strong 
objection  to  tramps  and  strangers,  who  are  apt  to 
make  such  liberty  an  occasion  to  pick  up  unconsidered 
trifles,  and,  if  not  so  bad  as  that,  to  leave  gates  open 
behind  them  and  make  inconvenient  gaps  in  fences, 
which  sometimes  leads  to  awkward  results  in  cattle  or 
horses  going  astray. 

And  then  the  nutting;  for  nutting  cannot  well  be 
dissociated  from  the  hedgerows,  though  the  nut  trees 
scatter  themselves  about,  like  capricious  beauties, 
through  strips  of  plantation  and  coppice ;  but  they, 
too,  Jove  the  hedgerow  and  flourish  there,  and  you 
cannot  go  a-nutting  and  fail  to  linger  by  the  hedge- 
rows. -Wordsworth  knew  that  too,  and  has  charac- 
teristically noted  it. 

No  student  of  natural  history  can  afford  to  neglect 
the  hedgerow.  He  will  never  become  familiar  with 


IO4  The  Delights  of  Hedgerows. 


some  of  the  most  attractive  and  at  the  same  time  most 
beautiful  and  fascinating  aspects  of  animal  life.  I  do 
not  here  refer  to  the  birds,  though  the  hedge-sparrow, 
and  the  hedge-warbler,  and  the  yellowhammer,  and  the 
larger  tits  are  habitues — not  to  speak  of  thrushes  and 
blackbirds,  and  the  starlings  and  jays,  who  go  flashing 
over  and  over  with  a  purply  gleam  wholly  indescribable 
on  their  black  back  and  wings.  But  in  the  hedgerow 
the  hedgehog  has  his  haunt,  the  delightful  little  shrews 
find  quarters  there,  and  also  the  field  voles  in  the  bot- 
toms of  the  dry  ditches  at  their  sides.  They  burrow, 
and  love  the  proximity  of  bush  roots,  though  they  will 
also  make  their  nest  in  the  field. 

Then  the  birds'  nests,  hidden  in  the  most  artistic 
manner  sometimes,  or  so  protected  by  similarity  of 
colour  to  the  surrounding  foliage  or  bark.  The  wren 
is  one  of  the  most  delightful  builders.  Any  one  might 
find  in  its  nest  a  subject  of  study  and  admiration  for 
weeks. 

And  there  is  still  another  harvest  of  the  hedgerows, 
which  we  should  not  forget.  What  would  become  of 
our  resident  birds — our  sweet  native  songsters — 

"  That  in  the  merry  months  of  spring 
Delighted  us  to  hear  them  sing," 

were  it  not  for  the  berries  of  the  hedgerow,  which  too 
glimmer  bright  through  the  frost  and  snow?  And  what 
a  pretty  sight  it  is  to  see,  as  just  said,  the  blackbird  or 
thrush,  or  even  the  little  robin,  by  flutterings  and  pres- 
sures of  the  breast,  clear  away  the  snow  from  the  now 
dark  and  trailing  branches,  and  reveal  the  clusters  of 
red  berries  to  match  the  breast  of  the  latter.  Yes,  the 
hollies  and  privets  and  hawthorns,  and  the  brambles, 
yews,  and  their  brethren  then  hang  out  their  banners 


Farmers  and  Hedgers.  105 

for  beauty  and  their  fruits  for  use !  A  sad  time  it 
often  is  for  the  birds  in  winter,  when  the  snow  is  deep; 
but  if  it  is  not  actually  pelting  snow,  you  will  see  our 
favourites  there  at  work,  reaping  their  harvest  of  the 
hedgerow,  so  wondrously  stored  up  for  them  ;  and  when 
any  of  these  winter  food  staples  fail,  through  some 
influence  adverse  to  the  insects  that  fertilise  them — as 
Mr.  Darwin  once  so  surprisingly  forecasted — how  mer- 
ciful should  all  bird-lovers  be  in  mindfully  scattering 
to  the  birds  any  crumbs  or  morsels  that  would  else  be 
wasted.  If  their  harvest  of  the  hedgerow  to  any  extent 
fail,  then  death  by  starvation,  added  to  cold,  is  the  fate 
of  our  sweet  songsters  by  hundreds  and  thousands  all 
over  the  country. 

Wild  and  unkempt  as  the  ordinary  hedgerows  of 
road  and  field  may  appear,  they  demand  at  proper 
times  a  good  deal  of  attention  from  the  farmer  and 
the  hedger  under  him.  How  a  farmer  keeps  his 
hedges  and  his  ditches  is  an  almost  invariable  mark 
of  how  he  keeps  the  rest.  If  the  hedges  are  allowed 
to  grow  after  their  own  sweet  will  for  years  and  years, 
they  will  certainly  at  length  spread  into  and  close  up 
the  ditches,  and  the  farmer's  fields  and  meadows  and 
roads  in  places  will  be  flooded,  to  his  loss  as  well  as 
to  the  landlord's.  There  is  no  more  frequent  subject 
of  quarrel  among  farmers  and  country  residents  than 
hedges  and  ditches  being  left  unattended  to  beyond 
the  proper  period ;  for,  of  course,  in  cases  of  flooding, 
the  surface  water  is  sure  to  flow  on  some  other  one's 
land  than  that  of  the  man  who  is  to  blame  for  it.  This, 
however,  is  not  the  most  idyllic  aspect  of  the  subject, 
and  we  shall  leave  it ;  but  not  till  we  have  said  a  word 
or  two  for  the  hedger,  who  certainly  deserves  more 
credit  than  he  gets.  If  you  fancy  there  is  no  skill  in 


io6  The  Delights  of  Hedgerows. 

his  craft,  and  that  only  strong  muscle  and  thews  and 
sinews  are  needed,  I  would  recommend  you,  the  next 
time  you  go  to  the  country,  to  have  a  try  at  it  and  see 
how  you  succeed.  In  hedging,  the  trained  accuracy  of 
eye,  which  is  noticed  in  the  rustic,  is  especially  seen. 
However  careful  you  might  be,  you  would  find  that 
you  would  leave  the  hedge  in  such  breaks  and  notches 
as  would  surprise  you,  and  probably  make  you  feel 
ashamed  of  your  conceit.  But  the  hedger,  without  any 
doubt  or  hesitation,  stroke  by  stroke  and  without  cessa- 
tion, shaves  off  as  many  feet  as  leaves  an  exact  line 
along  a  whole  length  of  field  as  level  as  a  wall,  and 
without  knobs  or  notches  anywhere.  If  there  are  a 
few  fancy  trees  or  elevations  in  the  hedge  he  will,  if 
you  give  him  due  encouragement,  cut  them  into  the 
oddest  and  most  outre  shapes. 

Hedges  cannot  really  be  thought  of  without  ditches ; 
just  as  light  is  invariably  accompanied  by  shadow,  so 
the  ditch  may  be  called  the  shadow  of  the  hedge.  In 
old  days,  before  scientific  drainage  of  land  was  carried 
to  such  an  extent  as  now,  naturally  more  importance 
was  attached  to  the  keeping  of  them ;  and  so  well  were 
they  in  many  cases  kept  that  large  reaches  were,  save  in 
exceptional  circumstances,  dry;  and  these  dry  ditches 
were  very  much  favoured  by  tramps  and  paupers  as 
places  of  repose  before  the  passing  of  that  most  philan- 
thropic, if  somewhat  repressive,  measure  (over  which 
the  inoffensive  Thomas  de  Quincey  mourned),  making 
it  an  offence  to  sleep  in  the  open  air.  "To  die  in  a 
ditch  "  may  not  therefore  quite  carry  all  the  degrading 
associations  apt  to  be  conjured  up  by  the  phrase, 
however  much  it  may  indicate  that  the  person  was 
unfortunate,  and  fell  from  the  high  estate  of  the  respect- 
able citizen  and  taxpaying  householder.  In  favourable 


A  Dry  Ditch.  107 


circumstances  a  dry  ditch  would  not  make  the  worst  of 
beds.  Thousands  in  large  cities  every  night  sleep  on 
a  far  worse  and  unhealthier  one ;  the  more  that  for 
curtain  there  is  the  interwoven  twigs  or  lightly  rust- 
ling greenery  of  the  hedge  above,  and  the  sky  and  the 
stars  to  weave  a  pattern  in  it. 

The  boy  that  has  made  himself  thoroughly  familiar 
with  a  ditch  and  hedgerow  is  on  the  way  to  become  a 
fair  naturalist ;  he  has  laid  the  foundations  of  an  educa- 
tion on  which,  as  one  may  say,  it  is  possible  to  build 
almost  any  superstructure. 

As  we  are  about  to  conclude  and  look  round,  pen  in 
hand,  our  eye  lights  once  again  on  our  own  little  hedge- 
row at  the  bottom  of  the  garden.  This  suggests  a 
practical  paragraph  to  end  with. 

Mr.  James  Long,  than  whom  we  have  not  perhaps  a 
more  practical  director  for  any  one  who  possesses  a 
small  plot  of  ground,  recommends  that  all  gaps  in 
hedges  on  a  small  farm  or  garden  should  be  mended 
up  with  gooseberry  bushes,  where  they  will  grow 
admirably.  The  hint  might  be  made  to  yield  no  end 
of  variety  to  the  eye  and  profit  to  the  pocket.  They 
can  be  trimmed  down  into  the  needful  uniformity 
season  by  season,  and  be  only  improved  by  it.  Then, 
recently,  we  saw  that  some  enterprising  nursery  firm 
were  willing  to  supply  at  a  cheap  rate  plants  of  a 
very  fine  kind  of  blackberry,  of  American  origin  if  we 
remember  rightly,  which  might  be  used  in  the  same 
way,  producing  in  its  season  the  most  luscious  fruit. 
Here,  even  within  the  smallest  demesne,  the  occupier 
may  with  little  outlay,  and  with  very  slight  labour, 
intermarry  the  wild  and  the  cultivated  in  the  .most 
delightful  style,  have  a  tiny  but  wholly  unique  garden 
in  his  hedgerow,  with  vari-coloured  blossom  and  flower 


io8  The  Delights  of  Hedgerows. 

in  their  season,  and  reap  the  ripe  results  in  the  most 
delicious  and  refreshing  of  fruits.  Thoreau  spoke  of 
the  delicate  wines  stored  up  in  the  wild  fruits  by  the 
wayside,  and  certainly  this  plan  would  have  the  result 
at  once  of  giving  the  trim  clipped  hedgerow  a  new 
beauty,  and  of  bringing  a  taste  of  the  sweet  wilderness 
near  to  the  doors  of  the  house  without  'any,  or  at  any 
rate  many,  countervailing  disadvantages. 


V. 


UP  IN  THE  MORNING  EARLY. 


How  few  can  say  that  they  have 
witnessed  a  summer  sunrise?  I  do 
not  speak  only  of  town-folk,  but  even  of  the  more 
leisured  country  people,  who  can  afford  to  lie  abed, 
and  have  no  calls  of  duty  or  business  to  attend  to. 
Of  course,  the  toilers  in  the  fields  have  to  be  up  and 
about  at  such  an  hour  as  will  bring  them  pretty  nearly 
at  certain  seasons  in  spring  and  autumn  face  to  face 
with  nature,  when  "o'er  the  eastern  hills  the  sun's 
broad  eye  first  peeps."  But  this  class  are  not  ob- 
servant, at  all  events  of  more  recondite  phenomena, 
or,  if  they  are,  they  do  not  make  record.  And  even 
they  do  not  see  the  genuine  summer  sunrise,  when, 
in  the  latter  end  of  June  and  in  July,  the  sun  is,  as 
he  should  be,  an  example  to  all  the  world  in  early 
rising.  By  the  invalid,  sleepless  and  weary,  the  first 


109 


no  Up  in  the  Morning  Early. 

faint  streak  of  daylight  lacing  the  east  is  eagerly 
looked  for  and  anxiously  watched  as  it  expands  and 
kindles,  and  finally  transfigures  the  sky,  but,  if  at 
last  sleep  comes  not  with  benignant  dawn,  the  fever, 
the  weakness,  or  excitement,  keeps  such  an  one  from 
true  enjoyment  of  the  sights  and  sounds  which  really 
mean,  if  they  are  effective,  invitations  to  go  forth 
and  join  in  it.  To  be  really  seen,  it  must  be  actively 
seen,  in  healthy  spontaneous  outflow  of  energy,  though 
with  that  "  wise  passiveness  "  which  Wordsworth  cele- 
brated, and  which  the  gypsy  woman,  of  whom  we  have 
heard,  must  have  meant  when  she  said  that  she  did 
not  care  for  words  as  she  looked  on  the  glorious  sights 
of  nature,  but  rather  loved  to  "let  it  quietly  soak  in." 
To  "  let  it  quietly  soak  in  "  is  the  one  condition  of  true 
enjoyment,  and  of  true  insight  and  observation  too; 
and,  unless  you  observe  the  old  rule  "  early  to  bed," 
you  will  certainly  not  gain  either  the  profit  or  the 
wisdom  promised,  however  early  you  may  get  up, 
because  you  will  not  rise  refreshed  and  vigorous, 
keenly  observant  and  healthily  sensitive  to  sight  and 
sound  and  movement,  but  you  will  be  languid  and 
dull,  or  morbidly  irritable  and  restless,  unable  even 
to  sit  still — proofs  of  the  effort  your  early  rising  has 
cost  you — and  the  sharp  searching  air  of  the  morning 
will  penetrate  you  and  trouble  you,  whether  frankly 
acknowledged  or  not,  because  even  in  summer  just 
before  sunrise  the  air  is  at  the  keenest;  and  to  be 
uncomfortably  conscious  of  this  is  simply  to  spoil  the 
finest  of  the  feast.  This  is  a  very  important  point, 
often — very  often — overlooked,  especially  by  city  folks 
when  they  are  spending  their  holidays  in  the  country. 

For  the  world  begins  to  wake  very  early  on  a  summer 
morning.     Even  by  half-past  two  o'clock,  or  very  shortly 


Blackbird's  Matin  Song.  1 1 1 

after  it,  you  may  hear  the  blackbird  calling  to  his  friends 
from  shrub  or  green,  and  getting  his  answer  too  after 
a  short  interval.  His  matins  are  early  sung,  before 
sunrise  even.  At  certain  seasons,  that  is,  from  the 
middle  of  May  to  the  beginning  of  June,  in  some  dis- 
tricts at  all  events,  the  cuckoo  may  claim  the  honour 
of  being  the  second  of  birds,  and  some  may  deem  it  a 
reflection  on  nature  altogether  that  this  honour  should 
be  held  by  so  arrant  a  thief  and  trickster.  Perhaps 
he  needs,  in  pursuit  of  his  own  objects,  to  steal  a  peep 
in  at  some  other  birds'  nests  before  they  have  awak- 
ened. Certainly,  he  is  like  too  many  human  beings 
— engaged  in  stealing  a  march  on  the  more  innocent 
and  unsuspecting.  But  then,  bad  as  he  is,  he  does 
not  victimise  his  own  species— at  least,  I  have  never 
heard  that  he  does;  so  that,  after  all,  the  cuckoos 
may  stand  only  as  a  kind  of  gypsies  among  birds, 
constantly  taking  advantage  of  other  people,  if  they 
can,  and  intruding  into  other  birds'  nests ;  and  if  not 
stealing  children  to  disfigure  them,  stealing  service 
in  rearing  theirs,  to  the  injury  and  death  of  legitimate 
offspring. 

But  while  we  have  been  reflecting,  other  birds  are 
becoming  active.  First  the  robins,  and  next  the  larks, 
which  rise  from  the  dewy  grass  and  mount  upwards  at 
the  outset  with  a  short  undecided  flight,  as  if  sorry  to 
leave  the  nest  as  yet.  Then,  as  though  they  had  been 
wakened  by  the  first  notes  of  the  lark — buoyant  and 
shrill, in  spite  of  indecision — the  sweet- voiced  thrushes 
send  out  hurried  notes,  in  little  broken  whistles  and 
trills  and  quavers,  soft  but  irregular,  in  recurrent  but 
not  unpleasing  softened  discords,  like  an  orchestra  tun- 
ing up  their  instruments  in  preparation  for  a  concert. 
They  are  yet  but  half  awakened — Tennyson  speaks  of 


ii2  Up  in  the  Morning  Early. 


"the  earliest  pipe  of  half-awakened  birds."  But  this 
early  piping  does  not  occupy  Mr.  Thrush  so  closely  that, 
if  you  watch  him  well,  you  will  fail  to  see  him  suddenly 
bolt  from  his  place  on  the  tree-branch  to  the  green, 
and  run  with  sharp  darty  turns  and  becks  and  halts, 
neatly  picking  up  slugs  or  worms,  as  it  would  seem, 
at  each  turn  or  short  stoppage :  it  looks  as  though, 
while  trilling  his  first  glad  welcome  to  the  day  (sweet- 
throated  utilitarian  that  he  is !),  he  had  been  carefully 
observing  these  slugs  or  worms,  and  calculated  with 
the  nicest  precision  how  many  of  them  he  could  thus 
dismember  and  gobble  up  in  one  run ;  and  having  had 
so  good  a  start  for  the  day's  work,  he  re-perches,  and 
sends  forth  another  stealthy  bit  of  melody  more  sus- 
tained and  songlike  than  the  last,  but  not  yet  of  highest 
and  fullest  tone.  Perhaps  this  early  morning  succulent 
feed  may  have  something  to  do  with  his  increasing- 
richness  of  note.  I  do  not  know  whether  it  would  be 
either  right  or  proper  to  quote  the  concluding  fine 
lines  from  Mrs.  Barrett  Browning's  well-known  sonnet 
here ;  but  certainly  I  must  confess  they  have  occurred 
to  me  with  some  quaint  questionings,  as  I  have  looked 
on  the  procedure  of  Mr.  Thrush  very  early  in  the 
summer  mornings,  whether  or  not  they  could  in  any 
light  be  applied  to  him  :— 

"  And  make  the  work 
The  better  for  the  sweetness  of  the  song  ;" 

and  vice  versd. 

In  this  perhaps  the  blackbird,  most  greedy  and 
voracious  of  birds,  would  not  agree.  He  does  not  like 
Mr.  Thrush,  perhaps — as  often  happens  with  human 
beings — because  his  faults  lie  so  much  in  the  same 
direction,  and  he  is  a  distant  relative  of  the  family. 


Wanton   Wagtails. 


We  forgive  the  blackbird  much  because  of  his  sweet 
song ;  and  truly  he  needs  much  forgiveness.  He  is 
not  only  greedy  and  selfish,  but  more  pugnacious  and 
revengeful  than  might  be  imagined.  I  have  seen  him 
ruthlessly  hunt  the  poor  thrushes  if  they  ventured  on 
what  he  deemed  his  feeding-ground,  even  thus  early  in 
the  morning,  when  there  seemed  plenty  of  worms  and 
grubs  and  snails  for  all  of  them.  When  angry  or 
disturbed  his  note  is  very  sharp  and  discordant,  and 
far  from  mellow,  as  his  song  is. 

Then  the  tits — particularly  the  blue  tits — begin  to 
flash  like  light  from  tree  to  tree,  with  their  tweenk, 
tweenk,  tweenk ; 
one  of  the  pretti- 
est but  most  pug- 
nacious of  birds ; 
and  if  you  are 
near  water,  the 
wanton  wagtails 
are  never  long 
out  of  it,  with 
their  pert  and 
sidelong  glance 
and  darty  walk; 
and  they  shake  and  preen  and  trim  themselves,  as 
it  were,  into  harmony  with  their  surroundings,  like 
fashionable  ladies  at  a  tea-party.  The  wrens  and 
robins  now  turn  out  in  full  force  in  their  fine  clothing, 
with  a  superfine  sauciness  and  audacity,  as  if  they 
knew  that  they  were  still  taken  for — 

"  God  Almighty's  cock  and  hen  ; " 

and  on  that  account  no  one  would  dare  to  injure  them. 
The  sparrows,  if  you  should  chance  not  to  be  far 

H 


PIEL)   WAGTAIL. 


114  Up  in  the  Morning  Early. 

from  human  habitations,  will  now  probably  surprise 
you  by  the  piercing,  penetrating,  steely  vibration  of 
their  little  voices,  as  they  welcome  in  the  day ;  and 
would  even  seem  to  have  been  studying  over  night  how 
they  could  be  most  sharp  and  resonant  in  their  notes 
this  morning.  I  have  sometimes  lain  in  bed  and 
listened  to  their  chattering,  so  continuous  and  intense, 
till  a  sort  of  painful  smart  shot  through  the  brain,  when 
I  would  jump  up  and  clothe  myself  and  go  outside  to 
escape  its  keen  and  unrelieved  monotony.  A  row  of 
lime  trees  right  in  front  of  our  house  was  a  favourite 
resort  of  theirs;  and  I  confess  we  were  so  much  of 
bird  lovers  and  so  sentimental  as  to  object  to  any 
effort  to  take  down  their  nests  or  drive  them  away, 
till  it  became  in  the  way  just  said,  simply  unbearable 
by  light  sleepers  and  lovers  of  open  windows  like 
ourselves,  when  we  compromised  the  matter  and  had 
their  nests  thinned  out ;  but  this  seemed  to  make  no 
perceptible  difference  to  the  ceaseless  shrill  of  bird- 
voices  close  by  our  windows  early  in  the  morning. 

Our  friendly  protection  of  the  birds  in  our  small 
domain  was  carried  on  with  open  eyes  so  far  as  the 
amiable  delusions  of  the  Rev.  J.  G.  Wood  are  con- 
cerned. He  really,  in  some  cases,  carried  his  senti- 
ment too  far.  "I  should  report  untruly  if  I  said  that 
thrushes  and  blackbirds — shameless  vagabonds  that 
they  are,  in  spite  of  their  sweet  voices  —  will  not 
delectate  themselves  on  your  strawberries  early  in 
the  summer  mornings  if  you  do  not  have  them  well 
netted  or  protected,  or  that  several  other  birds  won't 
visit,  and  speedily  thin  out,  your  mayduke  and  bigar- 
reau  and  white-heart  cherries.  The  truth  is,  there 
are  certain  things  certain  birds  will  have,  and  these 
are  always  the  finest,  too ;  and  you  must  protect  them 


"  We  tola  you  so!'  115 

if  you  mean  to  have  any ;  if  you  don't  protect  them, 
depend  upon  it  you  won't  have  any,  because  the  birds 
do  not  understand  equity,  but  only  their  own  tastes 
and  appetites.  (If  they  only  took  a  fair  share  in 
exchange  for  their  killing  of  grubs  and  insects  and 
worms,  I  should  be  the  last  to  grudge  it  to  them ;  but 
while  your  fine  fruit  lasts  they  won't  touch  aught  else  !) 
I  have  sat  for  hours  and  watched  the  efforts  of  birds  to 
remove  nettings,  and  have  seen  blackbirds,  thrushes, 
and  starlings  all  labour  for  half-hours  at  a  time  to  clear 
away  or  scrape  off  earth  tunnel-wise,  so  that  they  might 
enter  beneath  the  net  or  wire  fencing,  and,  having  in 
some  cases  succeeded,  so  exactly  have  they  taken  a 
note  of  the  hole  they  made,  that  when  you  tried  to 
catch  them,  they  flew  as  direct  for  it,  from  the  farthest 
corner  of  the  covered  space  to  which  they  had  enticed 
you,  as  a  bee-line,  and  were  through  as  by  magic,  and 
off,  to  your  great  chagrin.  And  all  this  before  full 
sunrise.  I  cannot,  therefore,  bird-lover  as  I  am,  give 
quite  the  same  report  on  this  point  as  Mr.  J.  G.  Wood, 
because,  being  often  "  up  in  the  morning  early,"  I  have 
sat  and  watched  their  persevering  application  and  their 
ingenious  devices  to  outwit  you  and  to  eat  your  choicest 
fruit;  and  I  have  paid  dearly  for  not  listening  to  warnings 
of  gardeners  and  neighbours  of  a  practical  turn  of  mind 
who  have  over  and  over  again  looked  at  my  bare  beds 
and  my  cherry  trees  with  bare  stones  that  rattled  on 
each  other  gently  in  the  wind,  with  a  sardonic  smile, 
which  meant  "  We  told  you  so." 

Go'ethe  has  a  very  fine  parable  in  its  way,  based  on 
his  experiences,  when  as  a  youngster  he  planted  a 
fruit  tree,  and  from  day  to  day  watched  its  progress, 
to  be  ever  and  anon  depressed  at  the  inroads  of  in- 
sects, blight,  birds,  and  what  not,  finally  to  congratulate 


1 1 6  Up  in  the  Morning  Early. 


himself  that,  after  all,  his  tree  yielded  him  as  much  fruit 
as  he  wanted.  But  then  Goethe  did  not  have  some 
species  of  English  birds  to  deal  with,  else  we  are 
afraid  his  moral  of  toleration  and  contentment  would 
not  have  been  so  comfortable  and  comforting.  And  it 
is  in  the  early  morning  that  the  birds  can  do  most 
execution  in  this  line — when  they  are  not  watched  or 
interrupted. 

But  we  rather  abruptly  left  the  little  sparrows  in 
their  friendly  scoldings  (or  is  it  their  way  of  saying 
"  good  morning "  to  each  other,  and  repeating  and 
repeating  it  ceaselessly  ?),  though  they  have  certainly 
not  left  off  their  chattering.  It  still  goes  on  with  an 
insistent  monotony  that  would  speedily  become  merely 
oppressive  were  it  not  that  soon  it  is  mixed  up  with 
other  sounds. 

The  blue-tits  and  the  robins  are  the  only  birds  of 
their  size  who  can  hold  the  sparrows  at  bay;  and, 
incredible  as  it  may  seem,  the  bold  effrontery  of  the 
sparrow  will  sometimes  avail  with  it  against  much 
larger  birds.  I  have  seen  a  blackbird  at  early  morning 
on  my  lawn,  after  a  spell  of  dry  weather,  with  much 
work  and  effort  secure  a  small  worm  or  two  for  her 
young  brood,  and  have  them  daringly  carried  away  by 
the  sparrows  to  theirs. 

The  trees  in  clumps  at  some  parts  seem  literally  alive 
— the  leaves  stir  and  flutter  as  if  there  was  a  fitful  wind, 
which  there  is  not,  for  it  is  perfectly  calm ;  with  now 
and  then  a  sort  of  subdued  susurration,  like  a  dying 
sigh,  so  soft  and  gentle  that  you  are  never  perfectly 
sure  that  it  does  not  exist  more  in  your  own  fancy, 
bred  of  the  hush  of  expectation,  than  of  aught  else. 
It  is  not  enough,  at  all  events,  to  stir  the  leaves  in 
the  trees  as  we  see  them  stirred.  That  is  due  simply 


Rooks  and  Crows.  1 1  7 

to  the  ceaseless  movements  of  the  birds  in  the  branches, 
as  they  flirt  and  flutter  and  preen  themselves  and  hop 
from  bough  to  bough.  Very  few  observers,  in  the  least 
sensitive,  not  to  say  fanciful,  would  not  be  inclined  at 
such  a  moment  to  admit  that  there  is  something  in 
Wordsworth's  lines  :— 

"The  birds  around  me  hopped  and  played, 

Their  thoughts  I  cannot  measure  ; 
But  the  least  motion  that  they  made, 
It  seemed  a  thrill  of  pleasure." 

Overhead,  there  is  the  first  flock  of  wood-pigeons 
proceeding  to  my  neighbour  Farmer  Nicholls'  fields  to 
look  at  some  very  fine  early  peas  he  has  sown  by  way 
of  experiment;  and  an  experiment  it  is  also  for  the 
pigeons,  who  know  that  they  are  sweeter  than  usual. 
And  now  they  are  feeding  young  broods,  and  make 
good  use  of  buds  and  tender  pods,  and  can  pack  their 
food  for  their  young  ones  in  some  kind  of  second  crop 
which  they  have,  and  in  due  time  they  neatly  disgorge 
it,  and  feed  the  young  ones  with  pea-pulp  admirably 
suited  to  their  tastes  and  digestions. 

Rooks,  cawing  in  a  subdued  tone,  or  it  may  be  that 
the  note  seems  soft  because  they  are  flying  rather  high, 
are  making  their  way  from  yonder  elm  trees  to  the 
distant  fields  where  the  soil  has  just  been  upturned ; 
and  in  some  cases  where  feeding  grounds  are  not  far 
off  they  make  a  slant  downward  line  for  them  direct 
and  almost  noiselessly,  attesting  the  truth  of  the  old 
saw  about  the  early  bird  and  the  worm. 

They  are  the  earliest  on  wing  of  our  larger  insect- 
eating  birds.  They  have  to  bear  a  good  deal  of  the 
opprobrium  due  by  right  to  the  crow — a  distant  relation, 
who  has  gone  on  bad  lines  on  two  or  three  points. 


1 1 8  Up  in  the  Morning  Early. 

The  crow  is  a  dirty  feeder ;  the  rook  is  by  comparison 
clean ;  the  crow  is  solitary — that  is,  it  is  seldom  seen 
save  alone  or  in  pairs;  the  rook  is  social,  and  loves 
always  to  go  in  bands,  to  show  that  it  is  so,  and  when 
high  on  wing,  takes  a  course  always  as  straight  as  an 
arrow.  Tennyson  is  right  when  he  speaks  of  the  old 
fellow  "that  leads  the  clanging  rookery  home" — he 
might  have  spoken  of  him  as  leading  the  clanging 
rookery  out  almost  at  sunrise.  An  incessant  hard- 
working insect-destroyer,  and  a  true  farmer's  help,  the 
rook  too  often  comes  in  for  a  bad  return ;  for  not  only 
is  he  shot  and  hunted  down,  but  he  is  cruelly  destroyed, 
often  by  poison  laid  in  the  fields.  A  writer  in  an 
authoritative  paper,  and  the  owner  of  a  rookery,  said 
that  one  year,  to  satisfy  himself,  he  now  and  then 
shot  a  rook  or  two  to  examine  their  crops.  He  got 
nothing  but  grubs  and  wire-worms,  and  now  and  then 
a  beetle,  up  to  the  2Oth  of  April,  when  he  found  some 
score  of  particles  of  oats  in  the  husk ;  but  on  carefully 
examining  them,  he  observed  a  small  whitish  streak 
under  the  envelope  of  the  husk,  and  he  found  imbedded 
in  the  kernel  a  wire-worm.  It  was  extended  length- 
wise, gorged  with  its  milky  substance,  and  in  colour 
exactly  the  same  as  the  juice  it  was  feeding  on.  This 
was  the  food  during  the  time  the  grain  was  in  the  state 
of  transition ;  but,  after  the  first  week  of  May,  it  fed 
entirely  on  wire-worms,  now  of  full  natural  size  and 
colour,  and  from  that  date  not  a  particle  of  grain  was 
found  in  the  stomach  of  a  single  rook.* 

*  It  is  very  surprising  to  find  Mr.  John  Burroughs  ("  Fresh  Fields," 
p.  267)  writing  of  "  the  crows  or  rooks,  as  they  are  usually  called,"  and 
throughout  the  whole  passage  speaking  of  them  alternately  as  crows 
and  rooks,  when  it  is  clear  it  was  the  latter  he  meant.  He  seemed  to 
fancy  that  the  carrion  crow  was  the  only  other  crow. 


The  Corncrake.  1 1 9 

As  we  pass  along  the  edge  of  a  cornfield  we  hear 
the  harsh  creky  crek  of  the  corncrake,  and  from  the 
other  side  comes,  mellowed  with  the  wind,  the  con- 
tinuous birring  sibilant  sound  of  the  yellowhammer. 
The  corncrake  has  been  called  the  King  of  the  Quails, 
and  one  of  the  most  peculiar  things  about  him,  as 
some  say,  is  the  ventriloquism  of  his  voice.  You  might 
fancy  from  the  cries  of  one  bird  that  there  were  a 
dozen  at  different  parts  of  the  field — a  device  the  bird 
has  to  render  it  difficult  to  guess  from  his  cry  any  true 
hint  of  his  exact  whereabouts.*  He  is  pre-eminently 
the  bird  of  ripening  corn,  and  of  the  harvest-time — 
one  of  the  migrants  which  reach  this  country  after  much 
more  slight  and  tender  birds — a  fact  which  has  been 
explained  in  several  ways,  but  not  quite  satisfactorily 
to  our  idea.  Just  before  us  is  a  clump  of  high  trees, 
oaks,  firs,  elms,  and  beeches,  as  varied  in  their  green, 
and  as  beautifully  blended  as  an  artist  could  desire, 
and  in  their  foliage  the  wood-pigeons  are  cooing  in  a 
perfect  chorus.  In  the  fields  beyond  the  young  lambs 
are  already  active,  the  ewes  intent  on  feeding  in  the 
cool  of  the  morning,  and  the  horses  in  the  little  paddock 
to  the  right,  as  though  they  felt  themselves  superior  by 
their  closer  contact  with  man,  sniff  about,  and  leisurely 
whisk  and  ruminate  as  though  they  argued  that  time 
was  all  in  their  favour,  and  that  good  meat  would  not 
spoil  by  waiting. 

There  already,  see,  the  swallows  are  on  the  wing, 

*  But  it  should  be  mentioned  that  on  this  point  it  is  said  in  Yarrell 
(vol.  iii*  p.  140),  "This  bird  has  been  credited  with  ventriloquial 
powers,  but  it  may  be  doubted  whether  this  is  not  in  consequence  of 
the  marvellous  rapidity  with  which  it  sneaks,  unperceived,  from  one 
spot  to  another.  The  Editor  has  had  ocular  proof  that  notes  which 
were  supposed  to  indicate  ventriloquism  were,  in  reality,  the  responsive 
utterances  of  two  individuals." 


I2O  Up  in  the  Morning  Early. 

attesting  that  flies  are  about.  As  we  pass  a  little  bit 
of  road  which  has  been  cut  through  a  sandy  rise,  we 
see  what  is  very  uncommon  in  our  district,  a  couple  of 
sand-martins — delicate  and  slender  and  silvery-dark — 
who  have  contrived  to  find  themselves  a  nest-hole  in 
the  bank  thus  made,  and  are  now  busy  feeding  a  young 
brood.  Nature,  wise  housekeeper,  does  not  long  leave 


any  ugliness  due  to  man's  adventuresomeness  unim- 
proved or  unrelieved  by  some  form  of  life. 

We  are  not  far  enough  from  the  great  city  not  to  be 
aware  that  the  bird-catcher  comes  this  way.  We  have 
met  him  over  and  over  again.  He  has  some  of  the 
worst  traits  of  the  loafer ;  but  he  is  very  clever  in  his 
own  way — he  can  imitate  to  a  nicety  the  note  of  the 
bird  he  wants — whether  it  be  linnet  or  robin,  chaffinch 
or  goldfinch,  bullfinch  or  yellowhammer ;  and  though 
he  finds  his  "  take "  too  plenteously  for  our  liking, 
still  the  shyer  birds  abound,  while  the  tamer  and  more 


The  Cattle  Awakening. 


121 


simple  or  trusting  run  the  risk  of  being  exterminated. 
Many  localities  have  already  been  almost  cleared  of 
goldfinches  and  bullfinches,  though  just  here  happily 
the  former  abound. 

By  the  time  the  sun  shows  above  the  horizon — 
suffusing  the  eastern  clouds  with  glory,  and  running 
streaks  like  long  fiery  fingers  across  the  sky,  and 
repeating  in  every  tree  and  shrub  that  lies  between 
him  and  you  the  veritable  vision  of  the  burning-bush, 
rose  and  saffron  hues  melting  softly  into  one  flush  all 


over  the  eastern  sky  up  to  mid-heaven — the  cattle  in 
•the  meadows  begin  to  move,  and  emerging  from  the 
sheltered  corners  of  the  fields,  in  which,  like  dark 
formless  heaps,  they  had  lain  all  night,  begin  to  whisk 
their  tails  about  in  an  intermittent  leisurely  way,  which 
tells  that  already  some  not  quite  so  beneficent  insects 
as  bees  are  busy  also,  and  are  quite  as  industrious  and 
methodical,  if  not  so  lovable,  as  bees. 

In  some  of  the  lower  hollows  the  clouds  of  mist  have 
hovered  close  upon  the  ground ;  you  can  almost  see 
them,  as  it  were,  fold  in  and  in,  and  finally  disappear 
like  smoke  before  the  full-faced  glance  of  the  sun. 


122  Up  in  the  Morning  Early. 


There,  look  you,  goes  a  great  green  dragon-fly,  with 
his  myriad  eyes — the  first  we  have  seen  to-day — his 
gauzy  wings  giving  a  kind  of  subdued  sound,  or  are 
our  ears  deceived  between  this  and  something  else, 
say,  the  first  faint  stirrings  of  the  field  cricket  ?  We 
can  hardly  tell,  for  the  humming  in  the  air  .increases 
round  us  as  we  sit  in  this  benignant  little  natural 
arbour  of  ours,  midway  in  our  morning  walk,  and  we 
find  more  and  more  difficulty  in  reliably  differentiating 
separate  sounds.  The  distant  and  the  near,  too,  get 
more  and  more  mixed  up  in  the  sense.  Now  come 
soft  and  faint  on  the  new  stirring  wind  the  low  lowings 
of  kine  from  distant  fields ;  the  cockcrows  in  challenge 
pass  over  to  and  from  the  neighbouring  farms ;  and  is 
it  possible  that  that  is  the  distant  hooting  of  an  owl 
even  in  daylight  from  some  woody  recess  into  which 
the  early  sun-rays  do  not  penetrate  ?  And,  listen,  can 
that  really  be  the  woodpecker  at  his  work  already,  tap, 
tap,  tapping  the  old  elm  tree  ?  There  goes  a  little  dipper, 
very  rare  here,  with  bright  flash  on  his  wing ;  he  is 

making  his  way  to 
the  main  stream  up 
yonder,  the  rivulets 
or  branches  having 
waned  to  mere 
threads  in  the  recent 
drought;  and  we 
have  now  and  then 
the  sibilous  cry  of 
the  willow-wren  or 
chiff-chaff,  and  the 
delicious  dropping 
music  of  the  chaffinches  from  hedge  and  orchard.  Ha  ! 
there  goes  a  bullfinch,  as  if  he  had  some  pressing 


BULLFINCH. 


A  Pleasant  Seat. 


123 


business  on  hand,  which  indeed  he  has,  and  that  is  to 
keep  himself  alive — the  only  one  we  have  seen  on  our 
morning  journey — with  his  exquisitely  coloured  neck 
and  throat  and  velvety  back.  They  are  not  tolerated 
in  our  region,  having  such  a  bad  repute  for  eating 
fruit-buds,  and  in  the  early  spring  it  moved  me  to  see 
little  strings  of  them  brought  in  by  the  young  farmers 
just  to  show  what  execution  they  had  done,  as  I  could 


not  help  thinking  of  the  floods  of  music  prematurely 
silenced — but  that  was  not  likely  to  weigh  much  with 
them. 

Here  we  are  at  a  little  fence  on  which  I  often  sit  as 
I  pass,  just  to  watch  the  effect  of  the  first  kindling  rays 
of  the  sun  on  a  bit  of  water.  What  a  fair  world  is 
mirrored  there  the  moment  the  sun  looks  in  !  The 
little  stagnant  deep  mirrors  wondrous  heaven  with 
softer  sky,  clouds  already  edged  with  fire,  and  fleecy 


i  24  Up  in  the  Morning  Early. 

bosoms  white  as  wool,  and  the  trees  on  the  banks  look 
down  on  aerial  images  of  themselves  reversed  in  its 
borders.  And  now,  listen  !  there  is  the  croak  of  the 

frogs  as  they  signal 
to  each  other,  and 
already  the  newts  are 
active,  and  display 
themselves  with  their 
strange  eyes ;  and  you 
may  not  sit  long  with- 
FROG<  out  hearing  the  calls 

of  birds  who  have  nests  in  the  trees  near  by,  telling 
to  their  mates  and  their  neighbours  that  you  are 
there,  an  intruder  and  a  stranger,  and  to  beware 
of  you. 

Yonder,  see  a  rabbit  scuds  home  from  a  too  long 
sustained  stay  in  a  neighbouring  turnip  or  wheat  field ; 
almost  at  our  feet,  a  mole  puts  out  his  head,  and 
suddenly  withdraws  it  again,  though  we  have  remained 
almost  as  still  as  a  statue,  which  proves  that  Mr.  Mole 
has  quick  eyes  somewhere  in  his  queer,  sharp-pointed 
little  head.  Yonder  goes  a  weasel  wriggling  over  a 
turf  fence,  on  the  other  side  of  which  probably  it  has 
its  home,  gorged,  as  one  can  imagine,  with  the  brains 
of  silly  rabbits  and  rabbitlings.  He  is  a  symbol  of 
the  great  blot  on  creation — the  creatures  that  prey  on 
the  weak  and  innocent,  never  engage  in  a  fair  fight, 
and  are  careful  to  delectate  themselves  only  with  the 
tit-bits.  What  a  peculiar  image  nature  is  of  human 
nature  in  all  its  phases,  lofty  and  low,  pure  and 
selfish ! 

And  now  in  front,  look  you,  there  comes  towards  us 
a  cat,  with  a  look  of  intent  resolution  and  business. 
That  cat  is  a  poacher,  and  has  been  away  at  one  of 


Poaching  Cats.  \  2  5 


its  haunts  in  yonder  coppice,  and  is  now  making  its 
way  home.  It  is  so  intent  that  it  is  within  some  thirty 
yards  of  us,  or  it  may  be  even  less,  before  it  observes 
us — sharp  as  its  eyes  are;  then,  with  a  sudden  sur- 
prised look  that  might  well  bespeak  a  troubled  con- 
science, it  turns  and  bolts  and  leaps  over  a  hedge  and 
disappears,  making  the  dew  sparkle  as  it  goes.  The 
expression  of  that  cat  going  homewards  in  the  dawn 
—tail  down,  hind  quarters  low,  and  shoulders  raised 
— suggests  the  idea  that  but  for  man's  constant  pre- 
sence and  control,  all  would  at  once  relapse  into 
wildness. 

The  late  laureate  caught  this  effect,  as  he  had 
caught  so  many  others  in  nature,  in  the  first  stanza  of 
his  song,  "  The  Owl  "  :- 

"  When  cats  run  home  and  light  is  come, 

And  dew  is  cold  upon  the  ground, 
And  the  far-off  stream  is  dumb, 
And  the  whirring  sail  goes  round, 
Alone,  and  warming  his  five  wits, 
The  white-owl  in  the  belfry  sits." 

Look,  as  we  walk  home  through  the  coppice,  we 
come  on  tuft  after  tuft  of  rabbits'  down,  and  might 
fancy  at  first  that  here  was  the  scene  of  the  weasel's 
depredations.  Not  at  all.  There  are  burrows  in  that 
hedgerow,  and  here  one  of  the  rabbit  does  has  plucked 
the  down  from  her  breast  for  the  lining  of  the  burrow 
for  her  young  ones ;  and  in  the  twilight  of  morning 
in  which  she  deemed  it  most  safe  and  advisable  to 
perform  this  maternal  self-denudation,  was  not  so 
careful  as  she  might  have  been  to  remove  all  traces  of 
her  loving  labour  and  near  abode.  Master  Weasel 
may  make  some  use  of  the  information  if  he  has 
noticed  this. 


126  Up  in  the  Morning  Early. 


pass  on   to  a  marshy 


very 


As  we  pass  on  we  meet  a  shepherd  driving  his  charges 

out      thus 
early  to  pas- 
ture,   whist- 
ling    as    he 
goes,     his 
face  shining 
from  hardly 
yet     effaced 
ablut  i  ons  ; 
and,  turning 
round,     we 
deserted,  the   resort 
of  many  ducks,   the 
sound   of  our   steps 
setting    the    inhabi- 
tants  to  flight,  with 
a   peculiar    cry    and 
clangour  as  they  dash 
forth  from  their  fav- 
ourite resting-places. 
As    we    pass    on 
we    skirt    the    edge 
of  a  slope  of  waste 
land    running    down 
towards  the  sea ;  and 
coming  to  us  across 
it   are    the    plaintive 
cries  —  pees- wee  t, 
pees-weet — of    lap- 
wings.     As  we   ad- 
vance, we  see  them 
circling  round  certain 
points  as  they  monotonously  repeat  their  Touching  cry 


MALLARD   IN   FLIGHT. 


Lapwings  and  Curlews. 


127 


— the  cry  of  all   nature's  voices,  to  our  thinking,  of 


RESORT  OF   THE   PEE-WIT. 


so  that  though  mournful, 

.-rsN^ 

e5»^ 


waste  and  solitary  places; 
there  is  no  harsh 
sense  of  inharmoni- 
ousness.*  If,  indeed, 
as  the  poet  says, 
"in  nature  there  is 
nothing  melancholy," 
it  must  be  because 
of  these  nice  and 
often  unnoticed  ad- 
justments of  sound 
to  circumstances,  and 
of  circumstances  to  sound, 
curlews  in  their  V- 
like  order.  We  can 
scarcely  imagine  lap- 
wing or  curlew  mak-  ._:^ 
ing  home  in  the  leafy 
coppice  or  green  wood, 
not  to  speak  of  the 
richly  "cultivated  park 
or  garden. 

Nothing  will  better 
bring  before  you  than 

*  The  French  naively  name  them  dix-hnit  (dees-weet),  from  their  cry. 


LAPWING. 

And  there  go   bands  of 


128  Up  in  the  Morning  Early. 

a  morning  walk  like  this,  the  fact  of  feres  natures  in 
large  numbers  sustaining  themselves  in  the  close  vicinity 
of  man,  shyly  busy  at  work,  but  seldom  seen.  Here, 
close  by  a  farmhouse,  we  skirt  an  unusually  large  pond 
with  clear  inlet  and  outlet  and  with  high  banks  around 
it,  particularly  on  one  side.  In  it  are  perch,  tench,  and 
roach,  with  a  fair  store  of  eels.  There  runs  a  moor-hen 
with  her  brood  along  the  sedgy  edge,  undisturbed  at 
our  presence,  for  we  often  walk  that  way.  She  has 
her  home  in  that  little  island-looking  space  over  yonder, 
where  the  willow  spreads  a  soft  screen  or  shelter  for 
her  nest.  Wild  ducks  in  colder  seasons  come  this 
way  too,  and  so  do  the  lapwings  in  hard  weather,  and 
sometimes  in  summer  or  autumn  a  squirrel  or  two  will 
steal  over  from  yonder  wood  just  to  look  how  the  trees 
are  for  nuts,  and  will  scream  down  at  you  from  the 
higher  branches  when  you  stand  and  closely  watch 
them,  as  if  you  had  no  right  to  be  there,  and  they  were 
privileged.  Mr.  Squirrel  is  very  nice  as  a  pet,  but  he 
is  a  little  exclusive  and  overbearing  in  his  manners  as 
we  find  him  here.  Perhaps,  however,  something  is  due 
to  the  narrowing  of  the  area  of  woodland  year  by  year ; 
and  he  now  sees  too  much  of  men  and  their  ways  for 
his  comfort  and  peace. 

Ha !  There  goes  a  brown  rat — a  very  different  kind 
of  customer,  who,  because  he  can  take  the  water  well, 
and,  perhaps,  does  a  bit  of  fishing  on  his  own  account, 
is  often  confounded  with  the  vole,  who  suffers  sadly 
from  the  ignorant  on  this  account,  though  really  very 
unlike  him  in  almost  every  respect.  Greed,  self- 
assertion,  and  low  cunning  are  marked  on  the  water- 
rat.  His  quick  furtive  eyes  are  as  characteristic  as 
the  pink  eyes  of  the  weasel  are  of  him.  He  is  no 
vegetarian  if  he  can  help  it,  and  after  fishing  in  the 


A  Limping  Hare.  129 


afternoon  at  this  very  pond  side,  I  have  often  in  the 
twilight  let  my  fish  lie  in  a  kind  of  dry  ditch,  to  watch 
as  I  lay  in  perfect  quiet  Mr.  Brown  Rat  steal  down 
to  carry  off  a  specimen  or  two,  in  which,  despite  my 
presence,  he  more  than  once  succeeded,  always,  as 
far  as  I  could  see,  seizing  the  fish  by  one  or  other 
extremity — a  good  precaution,  as  there  was  a  fair 
growth  of  overhanging  shrubbery  through  which  he 
had  to  make  his  way  with  his  prize  to  his  hole. 

But  hark,  what  piteous  sound  is  that  in  the  coppice 
we  are  now  skirting — a  sharp  wail  of  pain  and  fear,  or 
rather  of  terror  ?  We  soon  discover  it — a  rabbit  in  a 
trap — in  torture,  palpitating,  torn,  and  bleeding,  eyes 
strained  and  starting ;  making  a  last  effort  at  a  bound 
as  we  approach,  and  then  dropping  helpless,  exhausted. 
It  may  be  there  thus  for  hours,  till  the  trapper's  con- 
venience suits.  We  turn  away  half  sick,  our  pure 
pleasure  of  the  morning's  sights  and  sounds  somewhat 
shadowed. 

Only  a  little  farther  on,  in  a  run  we  find  a  snare 
with  a  rabbit  in  it — dead ;  the  poacher  is  merciful  from 
mere  self-interest.  He  does  not  like  traps,  because 
the  animals  cry  so  long  and  piteously  and  tell  their 
whereabouts. 

Ah !  There,  as  we  steal  along  this  hedgeside,  goes 
a  hare  down  the  furrow,  which  attracts  us  by  its 
peculiar  limp.  We  fix  our  eyes  and  see  that  it  has 
been  shot — one  of  its  hind  legs  shattered,  dragging 
behind,  as  one  sometimes  sees  a  doll's  leg  which  has 
broken  by  rough  usage,  and  now  only  held  on  by 
the  outside  cloth.  It  is  not  what  sportsmen  kill  that 
constitutes  the  cruelty  of  sport,  it  is  what  they  maim 
and  send  away  to  die  in  holes  and  corners,  torn,  tor- 
tured, and  bleeding.  And  that  is  one  reason  why  only 

I 


130  Up  in  the  Morning  Early. 

sportsmen  should  have  sport.  But  nowadays  my  yeoman 
neighbours  tell  me  they  are  becoming  more  and  more 
rare ;  and  that  lawyers  and  corndealers,  et  hoc  genus 
omne,  who  try  to  hunt  and  go  out  shooting,  should  for 
most  part  be  prosecuted  by  the  Society  for  the  Pre- 
vention of  Cruelty  to  Animals.  The  former  are  even 
cruel  to  their  horses,  which  they  cannot  manage ;  the 


latter  seldom  hit,  and  when  they  do,  they  generally 
only  maim.  Very  little  humanity  would  suggest  a 
more  merciful  mode — the  cry  of  a  hare  in  its  extremity 
is  exactly  like  the  cry  of  a  child. 

The  early  morning's  walk  was  not  to  end  entirely  with- 
out incident.  Just  after  I  had  stepped  over  a  gate  going 
into  a  field  not  far  from  my  house,  to  my  surprise  I 


An  Incident.  131 


saw  a  bull  with  tail  in  the  air  making  straight  towards 
me.  He  was  a  new-comer,  and  a  stranger  to  me; 
indeed,  I  was  not  aware  of  ever  having  before  seen  a 
fellow  of  this  sort  just  hereabout.  He  made  for  me 
with  such  a  wild  dash  that  all  I  could  do  was  to 
retreat,  and  make  my  way  over  the  gate  again.  But 
he  was  of  a  mind  to  pursue  the  attack,  and  I  was 
afraid  might  dash  over  the  very  inefficient  fence  after 
me.  So  I  clutched  at  one  of  the  posts,  luckily  not 
so  firmly  fixed  in  the  earth  as  it  might  have  been, 
and  with  it  swinging  above  my  head  I  waited  for  the 
attack.  On  he  came,  his  mouth  foaming,  his  eyes 
aflame ;  but  before  he  could  make  the  leap,  down  came 
the  heavy  post  on  his  head,  and  he  turned  as  though 
stunned,  if  not  blinded,  and  I  made  my  way  home. 
One  of  the  few  risks  of  such  a  walk  as  this  is  the 
presence  of  such  animals  in  a  lone  field ;  but  in  this 
case  it  only  imparted  the  element  of  adventure  and 
danger,  needed  to  make  my  early  morning  walk  more 
and  more  a  true  image  of  human  life. 

But  we  must  not  quit  the  subject  in  the  sombre 
strain  this  incident  would  suggest.  As  we  regain  a 
view  of  our  house  roofs  through  the  screen  of  encircling 
lime  trees,  we  see  that  the  pigeons — fantails,  pouters, 
and  tumblers,  as  well  as  common  ones — are  already  in 
session  on  the  roofs,  waiting  for  the  early  advent  of 
those  who  feed  and  tend  them.  In  the  meantime, 
they  are  cooing  and  doing  their  devoirs  to  each  other 
gaily ;  and,  between  whiles,  doing  also  a  little  damage 
to  the  roofs  by  applying  their  beaks  to  pick  out 
morsels  of  lime  from  between  the  slates.  As  Lord 
Tennyson  says  of  them  in  the  afternoon  sun,  they  are 
even  now,  early  in  the  morning,  "  bowing  at  their  own 
deserts  "  —  self-pleased,  self-admiring,  proud,  pretty 


132  Up  in  the  Morning  Early. 


little  things :  perhaps,  indeed,  the  most  self-conscious 
and  sympathetic  of  all  birds,  outside  certain  very  sensi- 
tive chamber  birds.  As  we  enter  our  little  gate,  we 
hear  the  hum  of  innumerable  bees  in  the  immemorial 
limes,  in  the  honeysuckle,  in  the  hedges,  and  in  the 
wild  roses  and  clematis.  Butterflies  soon  follow,  some 
of  them  of  the  most  lovely  colours,  giving  full  assur- 
ance of  the  summer.  And  so  we  close  our  morning 
ramble  of  fully  two  hours — not  having  met  or  seen  a 
human  being. 

The  sun  is  now  advancing  up  his  skyey  path,  and 
we  are  concerned  only  with  sunrise.  We  have  seen 
what  delights  both  ear  and  eye,  but  also  something 
to  give  pain,  and  pause,  and  to  promote  reflection — 
the  tragedy  of  nature,  and  the  manner  in  which  man 
so  often  selfishly  or  thoughtlessly  adds  to  it. 

But  before  we  end  our  account  of  our  ramble  we 
should  like  to  add  a  few  lines  about  one  point  respect- 
ing Mr.  Cuckoo  and 

fe-jfcft    <•"£  J  *S& 

tv 


his  family  which  is 
wrapped  in  doubt. 
Do  the  young  birds, 
when  they  are 
fledged,  learn  the 
call-note  of  the 
foster-parents  or 
of  their  real  parents, 
deserting  absolutely 
the  former  at  this 
stage,  after  having 
got  their  earlier  upbringing  out  of  them  ?  This  query 
is  suggested  by  the  fact  that,  on  this  early  morning- 
walk  of  mine,  I  heard  no  fewer  than  four  distinctly 
different  cuckoo  calls,  (i)  The  ordinary  cuckoo  call; 


CUCKOO. 


Cuckoo-  Ca  Us  133 


(2)  this  call,  in  a  hurried,  startled,  sharpened  tone,  as 
if  of  fear  or  warning;  (3)  a  distinct  and  prolonged 
second  koo — cuck-koo-koo-oo ;  and  (4)  a  low,  tentative 
cuck-a-cuck-koo ',  the  koo  being  faint  and  indefinite,  and 
more  of  the  broader  a  sound.  In  addition  to  the  calls 
being  different,  the  notes  sounded  varied.  I  had  never 
personally  observed  this  before,  and  speaking  to  a 
yeoman  friend,  who  has  spent  all  his  life  in  the 
country,  and  has  been  out  at  all  hours,  and  as  a 
sportsman  has  observed  a  good  deal,  he  did  not 
receive  these  statements  of  miife  with  surprise  or  as 
suggesting  anything  novel,  but  gave  it  as  his  theory 
that  the  young  early  broods  of  the  cuckoo  in  June 
are  fledged,  and  join  older  cuckoos,  whether  their 
true  parents  or  not  he  would  not  say ;  that  the  low 
hesitating  cucka-cnck-koo}  with  the  koo  very  indistinct, 
is  the  note  of  the  young  birds,  and  that  the  prolonged 
second  koo  is  the  note  of  the  old  birds,  as  trainers, 
now  emphasising  that  note  to  develop  it  fully  in  the 
young.  This  is,  at  all  events,  ingenious  :  it  could 
only  be  verified  by  evidence  as  to  whether  this 
prolonged  second  koo  is  definitely  heard  at  periods  so 
early  as  to  make  it  impossible  that  it  could  be  due 
to  the  circumstances  to  which  he  attributes  it.  He 
quoted  an  old  saw  which  lingers  in  some  parts  of  the 
country,  and  is  common  in  our  district : — 

"  April  cuckoo  come, 
May  he  sounds  his  drum, 
June  he  changes  tune ; 
July  he  may  fly, 
August  he  must." 

My  friend  averred  that,  so  far  as  his  broad  observa- 
tion went,  these  old  saws  generally  had  a  basis  in  fact. 
Whatever  may  be  doubtful  about  the  cuckoo,  there  is 


134  Up  in  the  Morning  Early. 


no  doubt  of  this,  that  the  young  of  the  cuckoo  are  armed, 
as  if  by  special  provision  of  nature  in  their  structure,  to 
throw  out  the  young  of  their  foster-parents  from  the 
nest.  Their  wings  at  the  upper  edges  are  strong  and 
high,  and  there  is  a  hollow  in  the  back  such  as  is  found 
in  the  young  of  no  other  birds.  Their  wings  and  back 
form,  as  it  were,  a  shovel  by  which  they  may  lift  and 
throw  out  everything  else  beside  them.  From  the  very 
minute  description  which  Mrs.  Blackburn  has  given  of 
facts  observed  by  her  and  many  of  her  friends,  the 
young  cuckoo  works  and  works  till  he  gets  under  what- 
ever is  in  the  nest,  then  he  straddles  up  with  his  feet 
fixed  in  the  sides  of  the  nest  till  high  enough,  and 
throws  one  of  his  shoulders  above  the  other,  and  so 
pitches  his  fellow-nestling  out,  and  this  while  he  is 
still  almost  featherless  and  totally  blind !  This  only 
adds  to  the  mystery  and  the  horror  which  cannot  but 
be  felt  in  studying  many  of  the  ways  of  this  bird. 


VI. 


WITH  THE  NIGHTINGALES  AT  THE 
VICARAGE. 

THE  parish  in  which  I 
reside  is  not  one  that 
presents  much  striking 
variety  of  scenery, 
though  it  is  rich  here 
and  there  in  by-ways, 
in  umbrageous  greeny 
nooks,  and  its  hedge- 
rows are  delightful. 
Not  a  right-of-way 

through  the  smallest  farm  but  you  come  on  "  nestling 
places  green,  for  poets  made,"  as  Leigh  Hunt  has  it, 
in  little  strips  of  coppice  or  woodland,  that  run  like 
a  rich  trimming  round  a  plain  solid  dress  of  fairest 
colours. 

One  little  dell  I  have  in  my  eye,  where  all  is  so 
nicely  bright,  yet  shaded,  that  you  might  fancy  naiads 
or  sylphs  at  play  among  the  lush  leafage ;  where,  while 
the  ear  is  charmed  with  the  soft  ripple  of  water,  hardly 
distinguishable  from  the  whispering  of  the  leaves,  you 
can  look  through  the  sheltering  screen  at  the  distant 
water-mill,  and  beyond  it  the  little  church-tower — 

the   only  things  that   suggest  human  activity  within 

135 


136     With  the  Nightingales  at  the  Vicarage. 


eye-range,  and  by  contrast  seems  to  add  to  the  sense  of 
repose,  serenity  and  retirement. 

On  the  boundaries 
of  our  parish,  to  the 
east  and  to  the  west, 
there  are  low  swel- 
ling hills,  crested  with 
trees  nicely  dotted 
in  ;  and  along  the 
slopes  of  one  of  these 
lies  a  wood  in  which 
it  is  my  delight  to 
stroll,  or  to  lie  and 
realise  at  mid-day  the 
sense  of  that  Pan-like 

silence  which  the  ancients  fabled  to  haunt  the  noon-day 
woods  when  Pan  was  abroad. 

In  the  centre  of  our  district  the  ground  is  flat,  but 
fertile ;  and  the  meadows  are  lush,  and,  in  the  season, 
bright  with  buttercups  and  cowslips. 

So  far  as  respects  tree-planting,  the  Vicarage  is,  as 
perhaps  it  ought  to  be,  the  bright  spot  of  the  parish. 
Art  and  nature  have  combined  to  beautify  it.  In 
former  days  some  of  the  incumbents  were  great  arbori- 
culturists— one  of  them,  indeed,  went  to  the  East  with 
the  idea,  solely  or  mainly,  of  adding  to  the  store  of 
choice  exotics,  and  in  one  or  two  cases  he  succeeded. 
The  present  vicar  rejoices  in  their  labours,  and  has 
added  worthily  his  own  quota  to  theirs.  You  might 
wander  a  good  way  before  you  came  on  grounds  where, 
in  the  words  of  good  old  George  Herbert,  you  would 
find  more  riches  in  little  room. 

The  house,  somewhat  low  and  angular,  lies  as  it 
were  in  the  corner  of  a  miniature  park;  trellised 


A  Sylvan  Sanctum.  137 

creepers,  climbing  roses,  japonicas,  with  their  faint-red 
flowers  in  early  spring,  and,  most  notable  of  all,  a 
lovely  magnolia-tree,  and  a  greeny  double  pomegranate, 
with  scarlet  blossom  in  its  season,  cover  the  walls  and 
relieve  the  harshness  of  outline  seen  from  whatever 
point  of  view;  and  it  gathers  its  little  lawns  and 
rosaries  and  flower-beds  close  about  it,  half-way  round 
it,  with  shrubberies  skirting  the  outline  of  these,  bright 
with  soft,  pink,  feathery  sumachs,  ornamental  pines  of 
many  kinds — the  Glaucus  pine  among  them,  with  its 
greeny-frosty  fringes,  peculiarly  beautiful — the  Judas 
tree,  the  Glastonbury  thorn,  so  rich  and  rare,  or  some- 
thing very  closely  allied  to  it,  with  spikes  on  the 
branches  an  inch  and  a  quarter  long,  and  hedges  of 
varicoloured  rhododendrons. 

This  forms  a  kind  of  inner  enclosure  or  sylvan 
sanctum,  through  which  the  farther  ground  opens  up  to 
you  in  delightful  vistas  as  you  look  or  go  from  point  to 
point ;  and  from  this  inner  sanctum,  at  any  part,  you 
step  at  once  into  the  little  park  of  which  I  have  spoken. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  road,  quite  separated  from 
this,  lies  the  main  vegetable  and  fruit  garden,  with 
lofty  hedges  and  stone  walls  for  wall-fruit  all  round  it, 
save,  indeed,  on  the  far  side,  where  it  gives  into 'a 
paddock  more  useful  and  less  ornamental  than  the 
park,  with  which  we  are  more  particularly  concerned, 
though  it  too  has  some  fine  trees  around  it,  and  one  or 
two  within  it,  on  the  strong  branches  of  which  swings 
can  "be  placed  for  the  children  at  merry-making  or 
school-treat;  and  in  one  corner  there  is  a  pond,  ex- 
quisitely closed  in  with  chestnuts  and  other  trees,  in 
which  a  duck  will  be  seen  now  and  then  delectating  itself. 

Round  the  extreme  limit  of  the  park  are  stately  trees 
of  many  kinds :  beeches,  smooth  and  velvety  of  bole, 


138     With  the  Nightingales  at  the  Vicarage. 

running  straight  up,  "like  the  mast  of  some  great 
ammiral ; "  oaks  of  great  antiquity ;  chestnuts  in  the 
early  summer,  with  their  creamy  pyramids  of  blossom  ; 
a  horn-beam  or  two — rare  in  this  quarter — common 
willows,  waving  high,  cedars  of  Lebanon  sighing  to- 
wards their  East,  and  some  splendid  elms,  mixed  with 
lilacs,  and  "  laburnums,  dropping  wells  of  fire  "  in  their 


season  ;  hop-elms,  a  cedar  or  two,  and  a  few  lime-trees, 
with  no  end  of  lower  shrubbery  wood — red-thorns, 
black-thorns,  white-thorns,  &c.  &c. 

At  the  lower  point  of  the  little  park,  that  is,  at  the 
end  farthest  from  the  house,  the  trees  in  the  outside 
circle  so  arrange  themselves  in  relation  to  several  trees 
planted  in  the  grass  close  to  the  boundary-walk,  that 
the  branches  actually  interlace  and  form  arches.  This 


The  "Cathedral"  139 

the  good  vicar  calls  his  "  cathedral,"  and  the  beaming 
delight  with  which  he  will  take  a  stranger  to  the  proper 
point  from  which  to  see  this  truly  Gothic  aisle-like 
effect  on  a  moonlit  night,  speaks  fully  for  his  sense  of 
the  picturesque,  and  his  love  of  the  poetry  of  nature. 
And  indeed,  so  seen,  his  cathedral  is  right  well  worthy 
of  the  name  he  has  given  it,  for  the  branches  when 
looked  at  thus,  give  the  idea  of  groinings  in  beautiful 
fret-work,  enriched  with  the  sense  as  of  some  divine 
tracery,  flowing  in  delicious  lines  and  losing  themselves 
in  a  maze  of  others  like  a  mist,  all  due  to  the  moon- 
light stealing  through ;  so  that  you  really  have  some- 
thing suggestive  of  the  effect  of  light  through  richly 
stained  glass — "  the  dim  religious  light  "  in  very  truth. 
This,  however,  only  if  the  moonlight  be  bright  enough, 
and  at  the  season  when  the  trees  are  in  full  foliage,  and 
in  that  richest  tint  of  green  which  has  the  indescribable 
and  almost  mysterious  effect  of  throwing  some  faint 
suggestion  of  blue  into  the  shadows  they  cast.  And, 
indeed,  from  the  sweeping  of  the  pendulous  branches 
over  the  little  walk  all  the  way  from  the  lower  gate 
entering  to  the  park  from  the  road,  you  have  nothing 
short  of  leafy  cloisters ;  so  that  the  vicar  has  through- 
out the  summer  and  early  autumn  a  truly  cloisteral 
approach  from  this  point  to  his  cathedral. 

Dotted  into  the  park  itself,  with  the  most  artistic 
regard  to  points  of  view,  are  copper-beeches,  pollard 
oaks,  with  sweeping  branches,  tent-like,  broad,  umbra- 
geous, walnut  trees,  birches  —  graceful  ladies-of-the- 
wood,,  and  a  few  mountain  ashes — "Oh,  rowan  tree; 
oh,  rowan  tree,  thou'lt  aye  be  dear  to  me ! "  There 
are  the  rich-looking  medlar,  •fully  clad,  the  graceful 
spruce,  and  the  weeping  willow.  And  from  whatever 
part  of  this  boundary  you  may  look,  you  cannot  but 


1 40     With  the  Nightingales  at  the  Vicarage. 

admire  the  art  shown  in  so  disposing  the  trees  that  the 
limits  of  the  little  park  on  the  other  side  seem  to  be 
indefinite  and  distant. 

This  park  abounds  with  birds,  for  the  vicar  is  a  great 
bird  lover  as  well  as  tree  lover,  and  has  even  been 
heard  to  say,  when  practical-minded  persons  have  told 
him  of  the  fruit  the  birds  would  eat  or  destroy,  that  he 
would  rather  be  without  the  fruit  (as  that  can  be 
bought),  than  lose  the  music  of  the  birds,  which  make 
him  delightful  concert  the  livelong  day,  and  have  even 
relieved  and  sweetened  to  him  weary  hours  of  night. 

It  would  seem  as  though  the  birds  knew  it,  for  they 
build  in  the  most  exposed  places  here,  where  one  can 
stand  and  look  on  the  callow  young  ones  in  the  nest, 
raising  and  opening  little  beaks  as  you  "  tweet,  tweet " 
to  them  and  put  the  finger  near,  or  into  the  deep,  dark, 
liquid  eyes  of  the  mother-bird,  as  she  sits  brooding- 
over  eggs  or  young  ones. 

Indeed,  the  vicar  has  heard  of  the  practice  pursued 
in  some  parts  of  America,  and  pursued  too  by  the 
famous  Walerton,  and  in  order  to  attract  into  his  pre- 
serves some  of  the  rarer  birds,  has  erected  in  secluded 
corners  of  his  grounds  box-nests  like  that  represented 
in  the  engraving,  and  has  in  this  wonderfully  succeeded. 

On  one  occasion  a  boy  had  intruded,  found  out,  and 
carried  off  one  of  the  nests  from  a  tree  in  the  hedge. 
The  vicar's  daughter,  passing  that  way,  saw  the  mother- 
bird  sitting  disconsolately  on  the  tree  from  which  the 
nest  had  gone.  The  culprit  was  speedily  found  (for 
all  things  are  soon  known  here,  and  nothing  can  long 
be  hid),  followed,  and  compelled  to  bring  back  the  nest 
with  its  little  family,  and  put  it  exactly  where  it  was 
before  in  the  branch ;  and  the  disconsolate  mother  was 
comforted,  and  reared  that  brood  there  to  maturity. 


Box-Nests. 


141 


The  robins,  in  the  early  spring,  will  sit  and  sing  their 
sweet  snatches  of  song  almost  within  arm's  length  of 


Our    vicar's    delight    in    his 
flowers,  trees,  arid  birds,  as  in- 
dicating a  freshness  of  feeling 
and  capability  of  youth- 
ful joyance,  in  spite  of 
sad  turns  of  ill-health,  is 
beautiful  to  see. 
The  park   is    a 
haunt  of  night- 
ingales,    which 
discourse  the 
sweetest    music 
all  through  the 
summer   night  ; 
and   this  is   an 
additional      de- 
light and  source 
of  pride  to  our 
vicar,  who  in  no 
way   wishes   to 
keep  all  his  good 
things   to   him- 
self. 

One    evening 
in    the    end    of  :      1 

May,  a  year  or 
two  ago,  we 
went,  full  of 

expectation,  to  listen  to  the  nightingales.  A  crescent 
moon  hung  in  the  silver-blue  sky,  and  shed  a  soft 
silvery  lustre  around,  strong  enough  to  make  a  pleasant 


142     With  the  Nightingales  at  the  Vicarage. 

light,  yet  not  strong  enough  to  cast  shadows  too  deep 
to  be  eerie.  In  a  little  arbour  we  sat  waiting,  and 
what  is  waited  for  is  invariably  long  in  coming.  But 
also  it  is  true,  and  how  delightful  'tis  that  'tis  also  true, 
in  the  words  of  the  French  proverb,  that  "  all  things 
come  to  him  who  can  wait." 

We  waited,  beguiling  the  time  in  talk  of  many  things 
— literature,  art,  and  music ;  and  at  length  the  music  of 


ROBIN   SINGING. 


the  nightingale  at  once  crowned  and  silenced  our  talk. 
The  shadows  of  the  trees,  like  finer  ghosts  of  them- 
selves, lay  lengthened  on  the  grass.  The  leaves  of 
the  lime  and  the  poplar  gently  fluttered,  even  when 
there  seemed  no  breeze  to  stir  them,  and  an  almost 
inaudible  murmur  appeared  to  steal  across  the  thick 
long  grass,  here  and  there  cluster-starred  with  mar- 
guerites, that  faintly  wavered  in  the  moonlight,  in  the 
pauses  of  that  song. 


Nightingales  Notes. 


H3 


The  pauses  grew  shorter  and  shorter  as  we  sat  and 
listened.  At  first,  despite  the  notion  of  a  challenge, 
there  was  more  of  a  complaining  plaintive  air,  varied 
only  now  and  then  with  trills,  gurgles,  penetrating  rolls, 


and  half-whistles  (we  cannot  describe  that  indescrib- 
able music,  though  its  subtlely  pertinacious,  penetrat- 
ing sweetness  is  found  in  no  whistle).  Gradually  the 
tones  grew  deeper,  fuller,  richer,  as  though  the  mere 


144     With  the  Nightingales  at  the  Vicarage. 

act  of  singing  had  brought  its  own  comfort,  nay,  its 
own  delight — the  triumphant,  mellow,  full  tones  pre- 
dominated ;  the  shower  of  song  fell  on  our  ears  like 
sweet  rain  on  the  wastes  of  the  desert. 

We  at  length  arose  and  proceeded  down  the  crescent 
path  that  bounds  the  park,  till  we  stood  close  to  the 
tree  from  which  the  music  came,  actually  touching  its 
leaves.  Still,  the  bird  was  so  rapt  in  its  song  that  it 
did  not  perceive  us,  or,  perceiving  us,  was  so  rapt  in 
its  delight  that  human  presences  were  indifferent  to  it 
— or,  it  may  be  (who  knows  ?)  were  even  stimulating, 
as  the  sense  of  a  sympathetic  audience  to  a  great 
prima  donna. 

And  doubtless  not  far  off  "  the  music  of  the  moon 
slept  in  the  plain  eggs  of  the  nightingale,"  as  the  poet 
sings;  and  that  was  inspiration  too;  for  the  song  we 
have  is  ever  but  the  herald  of  songs  to  come,  and  an 
aid  to  the  brooding  love  that  is  active  to  make  them 
come.  With  the  nightingale,  as  with  the  human  heart, 
it  sings  when  it  labours  to  prepare  and  to  perfect  the 
life  which  shall  enjoy  the  love  that  it  feels  within, 
throbbing  and  prophetic. 

Still,  the  music  flowed,  gathered,  swelled ;  now 
piercing  clear ;  now  lowly  plaintive ;  again,  as  if  calling 
some  loved  one  who  lingered  afar;  again,  as  though 
that  loved  one  were  near — were  near.  Those  pipings, 
trills,  and  jug-jug-jugs,  how  impossible  it  is  to  repro- 
duce them,  however  clearly  recalled,  and  it  seemed 
that,  instead  of  satiating,  they  grew  ever  more  sweet 
and  intense  to  ear  and  heart.  We  stood — none  of  us 
knew  how  long — close  to  that  sweet  heart  of  minstrelsy ; 
fearless,  unseen  of  us,  yet  doubtless  seeing  us ;  and  as 
we  were  moved  more  and  more,  so  more  and  more 
the  music  seemed  to  grow,  and  swell  and  quiveringly 


Sultan  Solyman.  145 

vibrate,  and  deepen  and  flood  all  the  moonlit  fields  and 
meadows  round  about.  How  the  other  birds  can  sleep 
soundly  in  their  nests  is  indeed  a  wonder ! 

The  thought  of  this  recalls  to  us  that  exquisite  legend 
of  the  great  Sultan  Solyman — Solyman  the  Magnificent 
— of  whom  it  is  told  (for  he  was  a  great  bird  lover) 
that  all  the  birds  came  by  deputation  to  implore  Soly- 
man to  stop  the  song  of  the  nightingale,  because  his 
piercing  notes  spoiled  their  sleep,  and  by  consequence 
took  from  the  freshness  and  the  fulness  of  their  song 


NIGHTINGALE. 


by  day.  But  Sultan  Solyman,  after  hearing  all  that 
the  birds  had  to  say,  and  also  the  defence  set  forth  by 
the  nightingale  (which  was  mainly  to  the  effect  that,  if 
he  ceased  to  sing  and  tell  his  tale  of  longing  to  the 
rose,  that  flower  itself  might  cease  to  grow,  or  to  shed 
any  longer  its  sweet  scents  abroad),  gave  answer  that 
he  was  deeply  sorry  he  could  not  interfere  to  secure 
what  the  birds  prayed  for.  If  the  nightingale  did 
indeed  rob  them  of  their  sleep,  he  could  not  in  the  end 
injure  their  song — that  could  be  due  only  to  their  own 
fault — nay,  he  could  but  improve  it ;  for  they  would 

K 


146     With  the  Nightingales  at  the  Vicarage. 

show  themselves  very  stupid  indeed  if  they  did  not 
draw  something  of  sweetness  and  depth  from  these 
longing,  plaintive,  but  triumphant  notes  of  the  nightin- 
gale. And  so  the  birds  had  to  go  away  disappointed. 

When  at  last  we  turned  and  bade  our  friends  good 
night,  it  seemed  that  the  nightingale's  music  followed 
us  for  a  mile  or  more  through  the  scented  sweetness 
of  the  night ;  and  that,  as  at  last  it  grew  faint,  the  notes 
of  other  nightingales  also  came  faintly  on  the  ear  from 
far,  and  more  distinctly  nearer  to  us,  as  though  nightin- 
gales were  sheltered  in  familiar  spots  close  to  our  own 
abode,  where  before  we  had  never  guessed  them  to  be. 
Or  is  it  that  the  delighted  ear  is  the  only  truly  prepared 
ear  for  kindred  harmonies  ? 


VII. 
"THROUGH  THE   WHEAT." 

OFTEN  sit  at  a  little  latticed 
window  at  the  back  of  my 
house  in  the  country,  and  look 
over  a  wide  expanse  of  land- 
scape. Just  beyond  the  hedge, 
of  which  I  have  given  a  description  in  a  former 
chapter,  there  is,  as  I  mentioned  there,  a  wheat  field. 
I  say  wheat  field,  because  that  is  the  crop  that  best 
I  like  to  see  upon  it;  but,  of  course,  it  must  pass 
through  the  regular  rotation  of  crops,  to  which  farmers, 
by  a  most  antiquated  and  short-sighted  system,  are 
still  bound  in  lease  or  even  agreement ;  so  that  all  free 
action  that  would  enable  them,  by  foresight  and  prud- 
ence, to  take  advantage  of  a  market  suddenly  opened, 
or  likely  to  be  suddenly  opened,  is  hindered.  The 
present  depressed  condition  of  agriculture  may  be.  due 
to  many  causes,  some  of  them  preventible,  some  of 
them  not ;  this  is  one  of  the  causes  that  could  easily 
be  removed,  and  ought  to  be,  so  that  a  man  might  be 
enabled  to  make  the  best  use  of  his  acreage  that  he 
could. 

Beyond  this  wheat  field  lie  greeny  meadows,  often 
with  the  most  delicious  effects  of  light  and  shade  upon 

M7 


148  "  Through  the   Wheat:' 

them,  and,  seen  from  this  point,  look  as  though  closed 
in  by  trees,  though  here,  as  in  many  other  cases, 
distance  lends  enchantment  to  the  view;  and  as  you 
advance,  you  find  that  the  effect  is  due  to  mere  clusters 
here  and  there  coming  more  and  more  into  line  with 
each  other  as  you  retire  further  and  gain  this  fine 
effect.  Beyond  these,  again,  the  ground  sinks  and 
passes  into  the  valley  in  which  lies  the  stream  I  have 
spoken  of  as  skirting  "  my  wood."  It  covers  the 
rising  slope  ;  and  behind,  still  higher,  is  the  gentle 
hill  of  Frating,  with  its  church  tower  rising  from  amid 
a  screen  of  trees — like  a  picture — the  very  scene  which 
from  time  immemorial  painters  have  delighted  to  paint, 
as  if  in  this  they  found  the  highest  imaginative  hint  of 
rustic  and  village  life  in  England,  the  spire  or  church 
tower  pointing  the  mind  to  another  and  higher  life, 
while  below  all  the  squalor  and  the  grimy  struggle  and 
want  is  hidden  there  behind  the  trees.  Art  is  said  to 
be  the  revealer,  not  seldom  it  is  the  concealer  too,  as  I 
have  more  than  once  thought,  and  looked  at  Frating 
from  my  window,  where  skilful  tree-planting  round 
the  vicarage  and  the  church  has  done  much  to  gain 
picturesque  effect  by  concealing  so  much  lying  below 
and  behind  them. 

As  I  withdraw  my  eyes,  they  rest  on  the  wheat-field 
more  immediately  before  me,  now  crowned  with  its 
golden  glory.  What  a  wealth  there  is  all  through  the 
season,  and  has  been  here  both  for  ear  and  eye !  In 
the  spring  and  early  summer  the  larks  made  a  per- 
petual concert,  the  sweet  strains  growing  at  once  more 
piercing,  keen,  and  full  as  the  spiral  ascent  led  higher, 
higher,  and  the  bird,  at  last  lost  to  the  eye  in  the  sun- 
light, was  still  clearly  heard,  recalling  Shelley's  raptu- 
rous lines,  so  kindled  with  the  music  of  the  bird.  And 


Skylark. 


149 


SKYLARK. 


In  the  winter  the  larks 


it  is  very  noticeable  that  this  inspiring  singer  is  the  bird 
of  solitude ;  and  he  is  notably  unsocial  all  through  the 
spring  and  summer, 
each  one  keeping  to 
his  own  nest  and 
ground,  a  thing  in 
which  the  young  ones 
even  follow  the  par- 
ental example,  giving 
the  old  ones  much 
trouble  to  find  and 
feed  the  little  things 
in  places  apart  from 
each  other.  Yet  they  do  it. 
go  in  coveys,  which  makes  it  more  easy  for  the  bird- 
catchers  to  find  them  in  many  cases. 

Corncrakes  now  fill  the  pauses  with  their  harsh  mono- 
tonous cry — crek,  crek,  crek,  or  something  like  it ; 
butterflies  hover  over 
the  blooming  wheat, 
and  now  and  then 
alight,  and  the  wood- 
doves  range  round 
the  field  at  certain 
times.  The  rabbits 
dart  about,  and  go 
with  their  hirpling 
kind  of  walk  down  the 
intervals  between  the 
"stetches,,"  and  now  CORNCRAKE. 

and  then  a  mole  is  seen.  The  rooks  come  and  make 
observations  in  the  pauses  of  their  work  in  the  green- 
cropped  fields  beyond.  A  most  curious  and  forecasting 
bird  is  the  rook ;  little  indeed  escapes  his  attention. 


150  "Through  the   Wheat" 

Often  have  I  been  drawn  out  to  walk  down  that 
winding  footpath — a  right  of  way  through  the  wheat 
— when  I  should  have  applied  myself  to  other  tasks, 
unable  to  resist  these  magical  calls.  The  walk  has 
thus  become  very  familiar  to  me.  I  do  not  believe 
that  human  beings  ever  entirely  escape  the  liking  for 
hidling  corners,  which  are  one  of  the  many  delights  of 
infancy.  It  must  be  something  of  this  that  leads  me 
to  seek  out  enclosed  corners  where  one  can  listen  to 
the  sweet  sounds  utterly  secluded  from  human  sound 
or  companionship,  and  where  one  may  repose  unseen. 
There  are  many  such  corners  round  this  field.  Even 
the  walk  through  it  affords  half  a  hidling-place.  You 
walk,  as  it  were,  with  a  solid  wall  of  grain  on  either 
side  of  you,  high  as  your  shoulder,  and  look  along  a 
kind  of  level  moving  tableland.  Mrs.  Browning,  in 
"  Lady  Geraldine's  Courtship,"  says  that  the  heroine's 
way  at  a  particular  point  in  the  story  lay  through  such 

a  field  :— 

"  Her  path  lay  through  the  wheat," 

and  a  more  delicious  or  more  suggestive  background 
you  could  hardly  have.  And  the  concert  you  now 
listened  to  could  not  be  spoiled,  like  some  concerts, 
even  if  you  indulged  a  little  sympathetic  talk  with  a 
companion,  if  you  could  allow  one,  for  here  the  singers 
will  not  be  put  out,  nor  the  chorus  break  down  for 
your  impertinence  or  interruptions,  nor  will  you  spoil 
it  for  any  other  listener,  however  much  you  may  talk. 
The  eye  is  as  much  delighted  as  the  ear — soothed, 
consoled,  as  it  were,  by  the  variety  all  in  such  a 
wondrous  unison.  An  ever-moving  billowy  sea  with 
rhythmic  waves  stirs  on  either  hand.  No  more 
delightful  impression,  I  believe,  could  be  produced 
than  by  the  effect  sometimes  of  the  billowy  movement, 


Pathetic   Suggestion.  151 


as  the  wind  sweeps  over  the  ripening  grain,  mingling, 
as  it  were,  sunshine  and  shadow  in  the  most  delicious 
interchange  as  they  seem  to  chase  each  other  unceas- 
ingly, while  the  grain  gracefully  bends  and  bows  before 
the  gale,  and  recovers  itself  to  be  anew  swayed  and 
tossed  in  a  sort  of  cadenced  refrain,  continually  begin- 
ning and  being  arrested,  arrested  and  beginning  again. 
The  late  laureate  no  doubt  means  this  effect  when  in 
"  In  Memoriam  "  he  speaks  of— 

"  The  thousand  waves  of  wheat 
That  ripple  round  the  lonely  grange." 

There  is  truly  something  of  pathetic  suggestion  in 
this  rhythmic  wave  and  swell,  associated  as  it  is  with 
a  low  surruration,  a  pensive  music,  indescribable,  and 
nowhere  else  to  be  heard  of  precisely  the  same  pitch 
and  quality.  The  waves  on  the  sea-shore  kissing  the 
sand,  and  sighing  as  they  retreat,  only  to  return  again, 
may  have  something  akin,  as  may  also  the  gurgling 
lisping  wash  of  waves  round  the  pebbles  by  the  river 
side,  when  vessels  are  passing  onwards ;  but  in  both 
cases  the  agents  concerned  are  felt  to  be  somewhat 
more  tangible — the  effect,  the  music,  is  more  the  result 
of  causes  realised  to  be  efficient ;  but  the  sea  of  air, 
with  its  unseen  waves,  when  they  play  upon  the  fine 
resistant  yet  yielding  harpstrings  of  the  wheat,  has  an 
intensity  and  penetrating  charm  of  its  own,  felt  to  be 
at  once  mysterious  and  natural.  I  have  even  fancied 
sometimes,  as  I  stood  and  looked  at  the 

"  Reapers,  reaping  early, 
In  among  the  bearded  barley," 

that  the  awns  or  beards  occasionally  imparted  an 
additional  keen  subtle  sibilant  sweetness  ;  but  this  may 
have  been  a  mere  fancy  of  mine.  But  any  way,  whether 


152  "  Through  the  Wheat" 

near  oats  or  wheat  or  barley,  lay  your  ear  close  to  the 
ground  and  listen  when  the  wind  comes  up  once  more, 
and  it  will  seem  to  you  as  though  thousands  of  soft 
human  sobbings,  not  all  of  sorrow,  but  not  all  of  joy 
either,  had  merged,  mingled  together,  and  taken  sweet- 
ness and  soul  and  penetrating  individuality  from  their 
union.  You  may  hear  wondrously  weird  tones  when 
"wind,  the  grand  old  harper,  strikes  his  thunder- 
harp  of  pines ; "  but  it  is  generally  too  high-set,  the 
resistance  is  too  great,  the  strings  are  too  far  apart  for 
the  notes  or  sobbings  softly  to  intermingle ;  you  hear 
in  a  greater  degree  and  in  a  degree  too  definite  for  the 
fullest  effect,  each  individual  voice,  so  to  speak ;  and  the 
wonder  and  pathetic  effect  are  lessened,  though  under 
special  circumstances  it  may  be  that  fear  or  horror 
might  be  more  powerfully  awakened.  But  the  blend- 
ing and  harmony  in  the  other  case  are  complete,  and 
this  it  is  which  affects,  delights,  moves,  and,  it  may  be, 
overcomes  you.  The  wheat  especially  is  a  harp,  but 
not  a  thunder-harp :  it  is  the  eternal  ^Eolian  harp  of 
nature.  In  all  such  sounds  heard  in  solitude,  and  in  a 
mood  of  responsive  sympathy,  there  is  the  strangest 
suggestion  of  human  voices,  far,  inarticulate,  im- 
prisoned, or  diffused,  as  you  may  choose  to  have  it; 
and  it  is  because  of  this  that  there  are  such  poetry  and 
pathos  in  these  sights  and  sounds  of  nature. 

Lord  Tennyson  has  applied  the  word  "happy"  to 
the  autumn  fields  in  the  first  verse  of  that  unique  song 
in  "  The  Princess  "  :— 

"  Tears,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they  mean, 
Tears  from  the  depths  of  some  divine  despair 
Rise  in  the  heart,  and  gather  in  the  eyes, 
In  looking  on  the  happy  autumn  fields, 
And  thinking  of  the  days  that  are  no  more." 


"Dora"  153 

But  "  happy  "  in  any  sense,  save  in  the  idea  of  ener- 
getic rustic  effort,  the  profitable  results  of  toil,  and  the 
prospects  of  a  hearty  harvest-home,  we  confess  we 
cannot  regard  the  autumn  fields.  It  may  be  in  this 
sense  that  the  late  poet-laureate  regarded  it,  though 
that  is  hardly  a  very  imaginative  or  poetic  sense.  They 
suggest  no  distinct  horizon  of  hope  and  promise,  like 
the  fields  of  spring  and  summer.  All  the  purpose  of 
what  from  one  point  of  view  may  be  picturesque  in 
human  effort  has  vanished,  or  is  on  the  point  of 
vanishing,  and  what  is  suggested  for  nature  is  bare- 
ness, bleak  winds,  the  earth  robbed  of  one  of  her 
sweetest  burdens  of  music  and  message  to  man.  It  is 
as  bread  that  man  now  too  exclusively  looks  on  the 
produce  of  the  fields,  and  true  it  is,  for  poetry  as  lor 
faith,  that  man  lives  not  by  bread  alone. 

Lord  Tennyson  himself  in  "  Dora  "  makes  the  heroine 
take  this  view  of  it.  She  fancies  that  the  gladness  of 
the  old  farmer's  heart  in  the  full  harvest  will  make 
him  tender  towards  poor  William's  child.  This  hope 
has  a  kind  of  pathos  in  it;  but  Dora's  idea  of  asso- 
ciating the  possibility  of  tenderness  with  the  joy  of 
success  has  also  its  truth. 

"  Then  Dora  went  to  Mary.     Mary  sat 
And  looked  with  tears  upon  her  boy,  and  thought 
Hard  things  of  Dora.     Dora  came,  and  said, 
*  I  have  obeyed  my  uncle  until  now, 
And  I  have  sinned,  for  it  was  all  through  me 
This  evil  came  on  William  at  the  first. 
But,  Mary,  for  the  sake  of  him  that's  gone, 
And  for  your  sake,  the  woman  that  he  chose, 
And  for  this  orphan,  I  am  come  to  you  ; 
You  know  there  has  not  been  for  these  five  years 
So  full  a  harvest.     Let  me  take  the  boy  ; 


Through  the  Wheat." 


And  I  iv ill  set  him  in  my  uncles  eye 

Among  the  wheat,  that,  when  his  heart  is  glad 

Of  the  full  harvest^  he  may  see  the  boy^ 

And  bless  him  for  the  sake  of  him  thafs  gone?" 

And  as  human  feelings,  at  base,  remain  much  unmodi- 
fied, whatever  the  effect  of  outward  custom  and  obser- 
vance, it  may  be  presumed  that 
the  same  sentiment  inspired 
Naomi  and  Ruth  as  regards  the 
latter  going  to  glean  in  the  fields 
of  Boaz. 

And  all  this  suggests  a  ques- 
tion :  Why  is  infancy  in  itself 
more  poetic  than  adolescence,  and 
adolescence  than  middle  age, 
and  middle  age  than  senility  ? 
Is  there  not  something  inde- 
finably expressive  to  the 
imagination,  in  possibility,  in 
growth,  in  the  promise  of 
indefinite  expansion.?  It  is 
not  only  the  purity  and  inno- 
cency  of  childhood  that  en- 
chant ;  it  is  the  spring-like 
promise,  with  its  uncon- 
sciousness, and  also  its 
That  it  is  passing  is  one  of 
the  elements  that  appeals  to  the  heart.  In  the  grown 
man,  with  every  line  fixed  and  settled,  with  habits 
formed,  and  the  countenance  become  the  very  index  of 
these  habits,  what  room  is  there  for  the  brooding  fore- 
cast blended  of  hope  and  fear,  which  in  some  circum- 
stances makes  the  commonest  heart  thrill  to  poetry  ? 
Childhood  is  the  springtime,  adolescence  is  the  early 


WILD   OAT. 


pomp  of  passing  beauty. 


Wheat  and  the  Poets.  155 

summer,  middle  age  the  later  summer,  and  age  is  the 
autumn  and  near  winter  of  human  life.  Only  Words- 
worth, with  his  exceeding  reserve  and  keenness  to 
recover  interest  by  a  pathetic  colouring,  has  made  old 
age  poetical  in  the  ordinary 
sense ;  but  even  he  generally 
effects  this  by  subtle 
presentations  of  con- 
trast— theyoungchild 
by  the  side  of  age — 
his  great  and  uncon- 
scious art  lies  in  subtle 
contrast,  and  making 
the  one  tell  by  almost  in- 
sensible touches  on  the 
other,  and  thus  interpret 
and  enforce  the  treatment 
of  both. 

Wheat   is  the  greatest 
favourite  with   the  poets, 
though  why  it  should  be  so 
is  not  easy  to  discover,  un- 
less, indeed,  it  may  be  that 
wheat  is  the  tallest,  most  powerful, 
and    uniformly    regular    in    aspect, 
looked  at  from  the  level.     But  oats 
and  barley,  particularly  long-awned 
barley,    have   their  points    of  supe- 
riority too,  viewed   merely  as 

,       ,„         .  r~.  CULTIVATED   OAT. 

picturesque  and  affecting.    The 

words  corn  and  cornfields,  it  is  true,  would  perhaps  be 
found  to  occupy  even  a  greater  space  in  concordances 
than  wheat  and  wheat-fields,  not  to  speak  of  barley  and 
barley-fields ;  but  in  a  great  many  instances  "  corn  "  is 


156  "Through  the   Wheat" 

used  generically  for  any  cereal,  and  not  unfrequently, 
indeed,  for  wheat  and  barley,  as  for  instance  in  Lord 
Tennyson's  fine  line  in  "  Aylmer's  Field  "- 

"  Fairer  than  Ruth  among  the  fields  of  corn," 

whereas  only  wheat-harvest  and  barley-harvest  are 
spoken  of  in  the  Book  of  Ruth.  But  we  must  turn 
from  poetry  to  fact,  and  try  to  find  in  fact  a  sort  of 
hidden  poetry. 

Take  a  single  stalk  of  wheat  in  your  hand,  and 
bring  your  finger  down  to  feel  how  shiny  and  smooth  it 
is,  and  then  try  to  break  it  sharp  off;  you  will  be  sur- 
prised at  the  resistance — it  will  crack  and  split  and 
still  hold  together  unless  you  are  very  violent  indeed. 
Nature  has  built  it  in  the  most  scientific  way  for 
strength,  and  for  the  resistance  that  comes  from 
buoyant  yielding.  It  is  a  hollow  tube,  built  exactly  on 
the  plan  of  the  strongest  bones  in  the  human  body, 
and  of  the  great  hollow  piers  for  wide  river  bridges,  as 
seen  on  several  in  the  Thames.  It  is  perfectly  round, 
and  so  smooth  and  shining  that  any  force  would  be 
likely  to  slip  from  the  centre  to  the  sides  and  past 
them  at  whatever  point  directed.  Farmers  tell  me  that 
strong-strawed  wheat,  such  as  the  "  Suffolk  Stand-up," 
will  resist  almost  any  force  of  direct  wind ;  it  is  only 
when  the  wind  circles  and  changes  and  "  beats  round," 
as  they  say,  accompanied  generally  by  rain,  that  it 
goes  down.  Could  God  have  built  better  a  small  stem 
for  resistance  first,  and  also  for  the  power  of  uprising 
again  afterwards  ?  Beaten  down  as  it  may  be,  the  grain 
continues  to  grow,  so  that  despite  the  evil  prognostica- 
tions from  laid  grain  general  throughout  the  country 
in  1890,  the  farmers  were  pleasantly  disappointed  in  a 
crop  which,  alike  for  weight  and  quality,  was  far  above 


Varieties  of  Cereals.  157 

the  average,  so  that  more  than  once  I  was  tempted  to 
say  to  them :  "  You  must  have  your  grumble,  but  no 
amount  of  wet  can  do  the  harm  a  month's  drought  will 
do;  so  you  may  be  thankful  for  the  rain — 'twas  a 
blessing  in  disguise."  Yes,  the  wheat  stalks  are  built 
on  the  very  principle  that  some  of  the  strongest  of 
animal  bones  are  built,  and  witness  to  the  same  prin- 
ciple in  constructing  for  strength  and  resistance. 

Never  before  did  I  observe,  as  I  now  did,  the  great 
varieties  of  every  form  of  cereal.  To  most  people  not 
farmers,  as  I  confess  it  had  hitherto  done  to  me,  every 
field  of  wheat,  or  of  oats,  or  of  barley  looked  exactly 
alike.  But  it  is  far  from  being  so.  Some  cereals  are 
short  strawed,  some  long,  some  more  slender,  some 
rounder  and  more  robust,  and  to  such  an  extent  as 
makes  a  great  difference  to  the  feeling  of  the  scythe- 
man  when  he  comes  to  cut  it.  Some  produce  an  ear 
longer  and  more  tapered,  some  rounder,  fuller,  and  less 
refined  to  the  eye ;  the  grain  of  some  is  long,  some 
round,  and,  to  the  experienced  eye,  a  very  little  atten- 
tion will  tell  of  what  particular  variety  of  grain  the 
field  is.  Some  wheats  have  the  seeds  standing  more 
straight  out  from  the  stem ;  others  more  slanting  up- 
wards, and  very  closely  packed  together;  and  I  am 
told  that  these  latter  are  powerful  against  lodging  rain, 
and  are  not  nearly  so  likely  to  sprout.  Some  are  by 
their  very  type  large,  some  small ;  and  it  does  not 
always  follow  that  the  farmer  should  be  guided  by 
what  would  be  expected  to  produce  the  heaviest  head. 
He  must  have  regard  to  many  things — the  quality 
of  the  soil,  the  amount  of  average  rain-fall,  and  many 
other  things.  What  will  do  well  and  yield  abund- 
antly in  some  soils  and  situations  will  do  but  poorly 
in  others.  • 


158  "Through  the 


Several  wheats,  indeed,  are  between  four  and  five  feet 
high  ;  and  some  of  these  suffer  very  much  in  the  case 
of  wind  and  rain  coming  together,  and  are  more  apt  to 
get  laid  than  others,  which,  though  equally  tall,  are 
more  powerfully  built,  so  to  speak,  and  are  capable  of 
recovering  themselves  though  exposed  to  great  force  of 
wind  and  rain. 

Farming  by  rule  of  thumb  may  do  under  certain 
circumstances;  hardly  can  it  do  when  the  holding  is 
extensive,  and  where  the  soil  may  vary  through  a 
considerable  range.  Then  the  mere  sowing  in  of  seed 
according  to  a  hard-and-fast  rule  of  rotation  need  not 
be  expected  to  pay.  The  scientific  farmer  must  be 
continually  on  the  outlook  for  new  and  suitable  stocks  ; 
and  I  learn  that  even  a  change  of  stock  is  often  ad- 
visable on  the  mere  rule  that  planting  over  and  over 
again  the  same  corn  in  the  same  land  has  a  tendency, 
clear  and  unmistakable,  to  operate  disadvantageously. 
Farmers  in  different  districts  thus  very  often  inter- 
change seed  stocks,  and,  within  a  certain  range  of 
suitability,  generally  to  advantage.  But  high  farming, 
as  it  is  now  called,  demands  not  only  much  knowledge, 
but  great  foresight,  calculation,  power  to  enter  on  ex- 
periment, and  scientific  skill  enough  to  read  alike  what 
a  certain  grain  takes  in  greater  excess  than  another 
from  the  soil,  and  the  best  manure  or  chemical  elements 
to  supply  again  to  the  soil  that  which  was  in  excess 
taken  from  it.  This  is  all  quite  over  and  above  the 
consideration  due  to  general  effects  of  atmosphere,  soil, 
rain,  &c.  &c.  Thus  it  will  appear  that  farming  is  by 
no  means  an  unintelligent  or  mechanical  calling  in  these 
days.  A  skilled  farmer  is  indeed  a  man  not  only  of 
much  energy  and  resource  and  capital,  but  in  a  certain 
degree  at  all  events  a  chemist  and  skilled  meteorologist. 


A  Long  List. 


I  do  not  know  exactly  how  many  varieties  of  cereals, 
pure  and  hybrid,  there  may  be — a  very  long  list  cer- 
tainly, as  seedsmen  and  nurserymen,  as  well  as  large 
farmers,  are  continually  producing  new  varieties,  many 
of  which  are  only  known  locally;  but  I  venture  to 
subjoin  here  some  notes  from  the  pen  of  one  of  the 
leading  agriculturists  of  our  district  (the  north-eastern 
part  of  Essex  lying  towards  Suffolk),  in  which  he 
notes  the  characteristics  of  the  various  cereals  most  in 
favour  throughout  our  bounds.  I  give  it  precisely  as 
he  handed  it  to  me  : — 


WHITE  WHEATS. 

Roughchaffed.  —  The  real  heavy- 
land  wheat ;  a  great  favourite  with 
millers  ;  very  prolific  in  fine  sea- 
sons. 

Talavera.  —  Very  early  ;  a  fine 
quality  wheat  coming  from  Spain,  as 
its  name  implies  ;  not  so  hardy. 

Hardcastle  and  Lemy 's  white. — 
Suitable  for  lighter  soils. 

In  addition  to  these  many  new 
kinds  have  been  raised  by  our  prin- 
cipal seedsmen.  At  present  they  are 
not  so  general  in  use,  but  are  for  the 
most  part  admitted  to  possess  a  stiffer 
straw  than  the  older  varieties. 

RED  WHEATS. 

First  and  foremost  comes  golden- 
drop. — A  great  favourite  on  all  soils  ; 
very  prolific  and  hardy,  and  not  liable 
to  sprout. 

Old  Kent  Red. — A  good  wheat  on 
light  and  mixed  soils,  and  considered 
by  millers  to  be  nearly  equal  to  best 
white  in  quality. 

Nursery. — The  finest  quality  of  all 
reds ;  must  have  rich  deep  soils. 

Square  headed,  both  redchaff  and 
white,  are'  good  wheats  on  hollow 
bottomed  soils,  rarely  going  down. 
Of  new  crossbred  wheats  Webb's 
Hybrid  King  takes  first  place  in  our 
opinion. 

Rivets  or  "  Clog"  wheat  is  getting 


more  into  favour,  as  it  does  not  lodge 
or  deteriorate  through  wet  harvest. 

BARLEYS. 

Chevallier. — First  raised  by  Dr. 
Chevallier  of  Aspal,  Suffolk  ;  is  con- 
sidered to  grow  the  finest  skin,  but 
almost  equally  good  are  Golden 
Melon,  Page's  Prolific,  Webb's 
Golden  Grain.  Messrs.  Webb's 
Strain  of  Chevallier  has  taken 
many  prizes  of  late  years — an  excel- 
lent barley  for  all  soils. 

Long- Eared  Nottingham  is  a  heavy 
yielding  kind,  scarcely  so  good  in 
quality  as  the  other  kinds  mentioned, 
but  does  well  on  poor  soils. 

OATS 

chiefly  consist  of  three  kinds.  The 
earliest  are  Winters,  and  generally 
come  to  harvest  second  or  third  week 
in  July.  These  are  the  heaviest  and 
hardiest  out  suitable  for  all  soils, 

SPRING  OATS. 

Tartary  (white  and  black]  are 
perhaps  more  grown  than  any  other 
variety,  but  many  prefer  a  white 
oat,  such  as  Suffolk  Triples  Potato, 
the  latter  usually  coming  to  more 
weight  than  any  other  spring  variety, 
but  wanting  rich  soil.  Tartary  oats 
in  the  Fens  often  produce  twelve 
quarters  per  acre. 


VIII. 
MY  FAVOURITE  SUMMER-HOUSES. 


THIS  little  picture  carries  me  in  memory  to  days  of 
boyhood.  In  the  school  vacation  how  sweet  it  was 
to  escape  from  tasks  that  were  sometimes  irksome  to 
all  the  delights  of  freedom,  when  to  range  through  the 
long  day  by  the  stream  side  was  to  catch  a  vision  of 
some  paradise  that  always  retreated  as  you  advanced, 
but  rewarded  you  with  new  hopes  of  finding  at  the  next 
advance;  when  to  escape  into  the  firwood,  with  its  sweet, 
resiny,  healthful  scents,  and  that  wonderful  blue  haze,  to 
gather  fir  cones,  was  indeed  a  second  heaven.  There 
were  the  pools  with  the  tadpoles  too ;  and  the  wonder 
that  dawned  upon  us  when  we  found  that  these  nonde- 
scripts of  nature  were  only  in  a  transition  state,  that 

they  gradually  threw  out  limbs,  and  developed  lungs 

1 60 


Sticklebacks.  \  6 1 


instead  of  gills,  and  from  something  like  fishes,  became 
veritable  frogs !  And  then  the  fishing  for  sticklebacks, 
when  the  sport  would  be  arrested  by  observing  the 
wonderful  playfulness  or  the  surprising  fighting-powers 
of  these  little  rascals  of  the  tiny  pools — these  finny 
spiny  nest-builders  of  the  miniature  lakes  that  are  to 
be  found  in  almost  every  bit  of  our  British  Isles. 

It  would  have  added  greatly  to  our  interest  had  we 
known  more  of  the  life-history  of  these  wonderful  little 
fishes,  as  we  know  now.  We  saw  them  in  their  nests ; 
we  several  times  saw  one  of  them  hunting  off  and 
fighting  with  others,  but  we  had  no  one  to  tell  us  of 
the  reason  that  lay  behind  all  this  in  their  economy 
and  habit  and  style  of  life.  We  should  then  have  found 
a  veritable  fairy-tale.  Our  readers  may  perhaps  be 
pleased  if  we  give  them  the  benefit  of  what  we  then 
lacked.  The  different  .species  of  sticklebacks  are  all 
grouped  scientifically  under  the  strange-sounding  name 
of  Gasterosteus.  This  Greek  word  literally  means  "bone- 
bellied,"  and  is  thus  finely  descriptive.  The  bodies  of 
the  sticklebacks  are  not  furnished  with  scales,  but, 
instead,  are  defended  by  little  spines  or  spikes  rising 
here  and  there  (different  numbers  of  them  in  different 
species)  from  bands  of  bony  matter.  The  male  attends 
very  strictly  to  his  domestic  duties,  as  he  sees  them, 
though  he  is  certainly  not  content  with  one  wife,  or 
with  two  even ;  and  his  plurality  of  wives  has  much  to 
do  with  ensuring  the  stability  and  increase  of  the  race. 

The  Very  important  work  of  building  a  nest  is  asso- 
ciated in  the  male  with  the  assuming  of  brighter  colours, 
which  make  him  look  more  and  more  different  from 
the  females  as  days  go  on,  till  finally  he  is  a  very  gay 
and  smart  little  fellow  indeed.  He  begins  his  task  by 
finding  any  loose  fibrous  substances  he  can  about  the 

L 


1 62        My  Favourite  Summer -Houses. 

stream,  very  often  the  soft  roots  of  the  willow,  and  he 
works  these  round  the  stem  of  a  bush  or  any  pro- 
tuberance he  can  find  handy  and  firmly  fixed  enough. 
This  is  the  foundation  of  his  house ;  and  in  laying  it,  as 
in  after-operations,  he  is  greatly  helped  by  some  kind 


STICKLEBACK'S  NEST. 

of  slime  or  gummy  substance  which  he  exudes  from 
his  body;  and  hence,  at  first  particularly,  his  odd 
rubbings  of  his  little  body  against  the  bits  of  fibre 
which  he  brings,  and  against  the  little  tree-stem  or 
protuberance.  So  he  works  till  his  house  rises;  but 
before  it  is  finished  he  has  to  fight  for  it.  There  are 


Sticklebacks  Nest.  163 

other  sticklebacks,  many  who  would  fain  have  a  house 
without  all  the  trouble  he  has  taken  of  laying  a  founda- 
tion from  the  very  start,  and  are  fain  to  steal  his.  He 
has  to  give  them  a  touch  of  his  quality,  which  he  does, 
and  drives  them  off,  with  no  doubt  some  little  quiver- 
ings of  pain  from  his  spines  well  applied;  as  he  dashes 
furiously  against  them  at  the  unprotected  parts. 

The  nest  itself,  when  finished,  is  somewhat  of  barrel- 
shape,  open  at  both  ends  however,  and  will  hardly  do 
more  than  half  cover  the  bride  for  whom  it  is  intended, 
the  head  and  tail  being  clearly  exposed,  and  only  the 
middle  of  the  body  in  the  nest.  Well,  the  next  thing, 
of  course,  is  to  bring  the  bride  home  to  her  well-pre- 
pared chamber.  She  is  found,  brought  there,  and  enters 
in.  The  male  is  very  attentive  to  her  for  a  time,  and 
keeps  careful  watch  over  her ;  but  he  has  no  notion  of 
supporting  her  any  longer  than  he  needs  her.  The 
moment  she  has  done  the  work  of  depositing  her  eggs 
he  turns  her  out,  and  goes  in  search  of  another  mate, 
and  with  her  repeats  the  same  process,  and  again  the 
same  process  with  a  third,  and  it  may  even  be  with 
a  fourth.  He  has  made  up  his  mind  that  he  must  have 
a  certain  number  of  eggs,  and  this  is  the  way  he  takes 
to  get  them. 

He  then  closes  up  the  ends  of  the  nest,  and  keeps 
strict  watch  over  it,  never  going  away  from  it  further 
than  a  foot  or  two.  And  he  has  need  to  be  strict  and 
careful,  for  not  only  are  there  stranger  enemies  ready 
to  undo  his  work,  but  the  discarded  wives,  whether 
moved  by  envy  or  jealousy  no  one  knows,  would  fain 
tear  the  nest  to  pieces,  and  eat  the  eggs,  or  set  them 
free  to  be  destroyed  or  eaten  of  other  fishes.  For 
about  a  month  Mr.  Stickleback  is  thus  on  the  closest 
watch  till  the  eggs  are  hatched.  Even  then  his  hard 


164        My  Favourite  Summer- Houses. 


work  is  by  no  means  over,  for  he  has  to  fight  for  his 
young  as  before  for  his  eggs.  The  old  belief  of  our 
Scandinavian  ancestors  was  that  the  strength  of  the 
vanquished  passed  into  the  conqueror.  This  seems  to 
be  the  case  with  Mr.  Stickleback :  the  more  he  fights, 
the  more  brilliantly  coloured  he  becomes,  while  the 
beaten  lose  all  their  colours,  and  subside  into  mere 
sober  browns  and  greys.  No  artist  could  paint  the 
bright  tints  that  glow  and  shift  and  gleam  on  his  sides. 
When  at  last  the  young  ones — mere  specks  of  jelly  with 
a  dark  dot  for  an  eye,  by  which  they  may  be  recog- 
nised— are  able  to  move  about  freely,  the  father  stickle- 
back has  still  a  busy  time  of  it.  They  are  always 
wanting  to  wander  beyond  the  bounds  he  has  assigned 
for  their  exercises — a  foot  or  two  round  the  nest.  Woe 
betide  any  little  item  that  strays  beyond ;  he  is  seized 
by  the  parent,  dragged  back,  and  pitched  into  the  nest 
in  great  hurry  and  wrath,  as  it  would  seem,  or  has 
dust  blown  into  his  eyes.  They  gain  their  liberty  bit 
by  bit,  as  is  best  for  other  youngsters  as  well  as  stickle- 
backs. But  at  last  the  young  ones  are  able  to  shift  for 
themselves,  and  with  the  close  of  this  duty  the  glory 
of  the  parent  stickleback  dies  out  of  him — his  bright 
hues  fade  away,  and  will  not  be  resumed  until  another 
spring  comes  round.* 

Well,  we  in  our  young  days  saw  enough  in  the 
stickleback  to  make  us  wonder  at  him  and  to  admire 

*  There  are  three  varieties  of  sticklebacks.  The  three-spined  is  G. 
aculeatus,  and  is  either  salt  or  fresh-water  :  the  fifteen-spined  is  G. 
spinachia  vulgaris,  and  is  common  on  the  northern  coasts  of  Europe, 
and  is  entirely  marine — it  is  larger  than  the  others,  measuring  from 
five  to  seven  inches,  and  is  sometimes  caught  in  large  numbers  on 
account  of  its  oil,  which  has  commercial  value ;  and  finally,  the  nine 
or  ten  spined  (G.  pungitius],  which  is  confined  entirely  to  fresh  water, 
and  is  the  species  with  which  we  have  been  concerned. 


A  Long  Journey.  165 

him,  and  our  knowledge  of  him  grew  gradually,  till 
we  have  come  to  feel  that  there  is  a  good  deal  in  his 
life  that  dimly  images  the  life  of  we  human  beings. 
Yes,  these  things  were  veritable  revelations  then — all 
was  wonderful — every  day  brought  its  new  surprise, 
its  fresh  knowledge,  its  inspiration,  its  new  hopes. 
Well  may  the  poet  say,  "  Beautiful  is  youth,  for  every- 
thing is  allowed  to  it." 

Never  shall  I  forget  a  long  journey  we  took  from 
this  low,  thatch-roofed  cottage,  with  its  sluggish  stream 
in  front  of  it,  over  the  hills  that  lay  behind.  As  we 
went,  it  seemed  as  though  life  stirred  up  at  every 
footstep.  The  place  was  little  frequented ;  there  was 
no  regular  footpath.  There  were  long  reaches  of 
heathy  common,  broken  up  by  patches  of  fir  and  birch 
— that  lady  among  trees  truly — and  here  and  there 
clumps  of  gorse,  with  flowers  golden  in  the  sunlight. 
The  rabbits  ran  here  and  there,  disturbed  in  their 
feeding  or  in  their  play;  the  curlews  called,  and  ran 
circling  round  us,  and  then  flew  off  away  from  their 
nests  with  the  most  mournful  cries  and  calls;  the 
omnipresent  rook  seemed  to  follow  us,  and  the  wild 
pigeons  cried  to  us  from  the  belts  of  fir  that  straggled 
along  irregularly. 

The  humble  bees  were  busy,  bumming  on  their  way 
or  settling  on  the  flowers ;  on  the  furze  bushes  the 
webs  of  the  spider  still  hung  dewy  and  glistening  in 
the  s.un  rays;  linnets  and  goldfinches  were  busy  on 
the  thistles  that  grew  thickly  here  and  there.  Our 
object  Was  to  reach  the  highest  belt  where  the  pines 
were  thick,  as  we  wished  to  gather  cones.  How 
delicious  were  the  scents  of  this  plantation  when  we 
reached  it,  and  what  gatherings  of  birds  and  insects 
there  were.  The  wood  appeared  literally  to  be  alive, 


1 66        My  Favourite  Summer- Houses. 


GOLDFINCH. 


and  our  presence  seemed  to  create  a  panic  of  disorder 
and  dismay  among  its  denizens.     Butterflies  and  beetles 

vied  with  each  other 
in  brilliancy  of  colour 
up  in  that  solitude, 
and  lovely  birds  were 
there,  and  even  the 
water- wagtail  by  the 
tiny  stream  seemed 
lovely.  The  wood 
was  literally  carpeted 
with  fir-needles,  and 
with  cones  of  former 
seasons  now  dry  and 

sapless,  and  ever  at  the  foot  of  trees  we  came  on  fungi 
that  showed  like  gems  and  pearls. 

We  gathered  and  gathered  fir-cones  till  the  sun  fell, 
and  then  returned  in  the  soft  twilight,  when  the  mantle 
of  grey  was  falling  over  all,  and  the  glow-worms  were 
hanging  out  their  lamps  on  the  hill- 
sides. We  were  healthily  tired, 
but  we  had  our  prize  of  cones 
wherewith  to  make  our  much- 
wished  for  ornaments,  and  we  went 
to  bed  and  dreamed  of  that  wood,  with  its  shy  and  lovely 
ever-active  denizens — dreamt  that  we  roved  by  still 
more  unfrequented  and  erratic  ways  than  we  had  that 
day  traversed,  lost  our  bearings,  and  ourselves  were 
lost,  and  went  hopelessly  from  point  to  point,  leaping 
over  tiny  streams  flowing  through  miles  of  fir  and  pine 
in  endless  avenues  and  glades,  till  at  last  we  sank 
exhausted  on  a  bed  of  fern  and  dreamt — a  dream 
within  a  dream — of  a  hill- top,  with  fairies  in  circles 
on  it,  like  circles  of  light,  into  which  we  were  led,  and 


GLOW-WORM. 


On  the  Surrey  Hills. 


in  the  midst  of  the  crowning  brightness,  and  face  to 
face  with  the  most  lovely  forms,  awakened  to  find  that 
we  had  a  touch  of  cramp  from  over-walking  ourselves, 
and  wished  and  wished  we  could  fall  asleep  and  just 
begin  that  dream  within  a  dream  again,  exactly  where 
we  had  left  off.  "  Beautiful  indeed  is  youth,  for  every- 
thing is  allowed  to  it." 

Into   what    a    different   region,   with   what  different 


associations  does  this  second  house  take  one  !  Sweetly 
embowered  in  greenery,  for  elms,  limes,  pines,  birches, 
and  poplars  deliciously  intermingle  with  lilacs,  labur- 
nums, and  hollies,  and  even  a  rowan-tree  (mountain 
ash)  or  two,  and  close  it  in  on  all  sides,  save  the  front 
entrance,  which  you  see.  It  is  delightfully  situated  on 
a  little  shelf  on  the  side  of  one  of  the  Surrey  hills,  and 
looks  like  a  nest  with  the  bird  sitting  on  it.  Seen 
from  below  as  you  advance  to  it,  it  appears  literally  to 


1 68        My  Favourite  Summer- Houses. 

hang  on  the  face  of  the  hill,  and  with  the  sunshine  blink- 
ing on  its  whitened  side  walls  seems  in  a  kindly  way  to 
beckon  you  to  advance.  How  many  and  how  pleasant 
are  tlie  excursions  we  have  made  from  these  doors  ! 
Hovr  sweet  the  memories  that  dwell  with  us  still  of 
those  rambles  through  wood  and  moorland,  over  heath 
and  holt !  Looking  from  the  gate  we  could  see  over 
an  immense  area ;  in  the  middle  distance  right  in  front 
one  of  the  most  beautiful  villages  in  England  gathered 
round  its  green  so  neatly,  with  its  drinking  fountain  in 
the  centre,  the  gift  of  one  who  long  lived  and  worked 
there,  and  with  the  big  house  of  the  squire  on  a  gentle 
wooded  height  looking  down  on  it  graciously.  And 
though  this  village  was  a  mile  or  two  distant,  in  some 
states  of  the  atmosphere  it  looked  quite  near,  as  though 
close  below,  while  looking  from  that  village  again  to- 
wards our  house  it  seemed  as  though  a  step  or  two 
would  bring  you  to  the  foot  of  our  hill.  You  had  to 
learn  by  experience  that  the  idea  of  distance  in  these 
hilly  regions  was  very  deceptive  indeed. 

Coldharbour — that  picturesque  little  settlement,  red- 
roofed  and  warm  amidst  its  greeny  shelter,  one  half  of 
it  clustering  by  the  church,  as  though  half  nestling  in 
a  cup's-side — was  not  very  far  off,  and  often  we  found 
our  way  there  by  Mosse's  wood ;  and  sometimes  on 
our  way  back  we  would  stay  thereabout  till  the  twilight 
fell,  and  watch  and  listen  to  the  sound — the  eerie  sound 
— made  by  that  strange  bird,  half  hawk,  half  swallow, 
the  nightjar,  which  wheels  round  the  tops  of  the  trees, 
more  especially  the  fir  trees,  after  the  moths  and  beetles 
and  the  night  flyers,  which  form  its  food — thence  the 
name  which  it  has  in  some  parts  of  the  wheel-bird. 
We  had  often  been  surprised  at  the  strange  and  un- 
expected sound  it  makes  when  anything  startles  or 


The  Nightjar. 


169 


frightens  it :  it  strikes  its  wings  together  over  its 
back  somehow,  and  from  this  circumstance  came  to  be 
regarded  with  superstitious  fears  by  the  rustics. 

It  has  a  peculiar  owl-like  aspect  seen  in  certain 
positions,  and  hence  it  has  been  called  the  fern  owl, 
which  is  more  justified  than  another  name  it  sometimes 
gets — the  night  hawk.  But  more  appropriate  is  the 


NIGHTJAR   OR    EVE-CHURR. 

eve-churr,  from  the  chur-r-r  of  its  note,  a  little  like  the 
chir  of  electric  wires.  It  has  a  peculiar  habit  of  never 
perching  across,  but  only  along  a  branch — a  habit 
supposed  to  be  due  to  the  peculiar  form  of  its  toes, 
the  middle  toe  having  a  long  flange  or  comblike  exten- 
sion, about  the  use  of  which  naturalists  are  much 
divided.  It  has  another  great  peculiarity:  from  the 


My  Favourite  Slimmer- Houses. 


upper  part  of  the  beak  there  hang  down  over  the  lower 
part  quill-like  points — really  undeveloped  feathers. 
The  purpose  of  this  is  more  evident.  It  catches  its 

prey  in  flight, 
with  its  mouth 
wide  agape,  and 
this  remarkable 
development  aids 
it  in  retaining 
them  in  its  mouth 
as  it  flies — the 
more  that  these 
quills  are  said  to 
be  touched  with 
a  peculiar  kind  of 
gum  it  secretes 
for  this  purpose, 
and  to  which  the 

insects  stick  till  the  bird  can  swallow  them  or  feed  its 
young  with  them. 

It  builds  no  nest,  but  lays  its  two  eggs-  invariably 
two,  but  no  more — in  a  depression  at  the  foot  of  a  tree, 
either  among  sand  or  stones  or  decaying  fern  and 
leaves ;  and  the  bird  as  it  broods  is  so  like  the  sand  or 
stones  or  fern,  that  naturalists  find  in  this  a  good 
instance  of  what  is  called  protective  colouring.  Indeed 
it  knows  so  well  what  colour  of  bark  best  matches  its 
plumage  that  you  can  rarely  see  it  unless  it  moves, 
which  it  is  not  very  keen  to  do,  and  will  keep  quite 
still  till  you  are  about  to  touch  it,  or  even  tread  upon 
it;  then  it  flies  off,  pretending  that  you  have  hurt 
it,  goes  tumbling  about  as  though  wing  or  leg  were 
broken,  all  to  tempt  you  to  follow  it  and  divert  you 
from  its  "  nest  " — cunning  wee  thing !  This  instinct 


Delightful  Footpaths.  171 


according  to  Thoreau  and  many  other  observers  is 
developed  m  the  young  ones  trom  the  moment  of 
their  emergence  from  the  egg,  and  so  wily  are  they 


EGGS  OF   THE   NIGHTJAR. 

that,  as  the  brightness  of  the  eyes  alone  would  betray 
them,  they  close  the  eyes  and  look  through  the  very 
narrowest  slit  when  any  strange  animal  or  person 
comes  near. 

What  a  delight  it  was,  too,  to  turn  out  into  the 
loftier  parts  of  the  hill,  over  large  spaces  of  which 
grew  the  whortleberries,  locally  called  "  hurts,"  and  lie 
and  enjoy  their  delicious  tonic  flavour,  and  think  of 
Thoreau's  celebrations  of  the  wines  that  He  stored  up 
in  the  wild  fruits  by  the  wayside  !  And,  after  having 
enjoyed  this,  to  go  on  again  dipping  down  into  the 
valley  by  the  most  delightful  footpaths — all  round  you 
seas  of  fern  and  heath — on  to  Tillingbourne,  to  watch 
the  fall,  slipping  down,  white  and  foaming  at  foot,  or 
to  wander  refreshed  by  the  stream-side,  or  to  journey 
by  the  almost  Swiss-like  Friday  Street,  with  its  lake 
lying  still  below  you  as  you  suddenly  emerge  into  view 
of  it  from  the  wood,  and  so  on  and  on  by  sweet  paths 
to  Abinger,  there  to  range  over  the  wide  furzy  common 
— truly  a  common — and  see  the  pretty  quaint  old 
church — restored  some  years  ago — and  the  picturesque 


172        My  Favourite  Summer -Houses. 


little  churchyard,  and  the  old  stocks  by  the  main  gate 
as  you  enter  or  emerge. 

"  Arcadia  found  at  last  for  our  reward  ! 

The  village  lies  in  swathes  of  sunshine  sweet ; 
Green  grass  is  soothing  for  the  weary  feet, 
Even  though  it  be  too  luscious  burial  sward. 

To  maiden  modesty  what  fit  award  ! 

The  rose-trees  year  by  year  the  tale  repeat 
Of  young  life  ended  pure,  without  defeat, 

Of  hopes  long  cherished  or  a  heart  grown  hard. 

And  there  what  uncouth  forms  the  glad  eyes  greet  ? 
Are  these  the  stocks  that  once  for  penal  pains 
Familiar  stood  as  warning  to  all  swains 

Inclined  too  lightly  other's  rights  to  treat  ? 
They  moulder  now  in  parody  of  time 
When  this  fair  village  had  its  petty  crime." 

Then,  if  we  will,  we  may  pass  by  the  Hammer — 
sweet  hamlet — on  to  Gomshall  and  home  again.  Who 
can  tell  how  much  of  the  healthful  effects  of  these 
wanderings  is  due  to  the  wonderful  mixture  of  aromatic 
scents — the  resinous  odour  of  the  pines,  the  scents  of 
fern  and  whortleberry,  of  heath  and  beech,  and  oak 
and  elm  ? 

And  then,  how  often  have  I  taken  visitors  down  past 
Coldharbour  to  the  Redlands  Wood — that  delightful  pine 
wood — with  its  clumps  and  clusters,  its  waving  ferns 
and  giant  firs — one  indeed  a  veritable  monster,  a  mark 
for  miles  round,  rising  high  above  his  fellows — head 
and  shoulders  over  all — a  very  Saul  among  pine  trees. 
Often,  often  have  I,  pointing  at  this  great  tree  from  a 
little  distance,  asked  my  companions — new  to  the  place 
— what  their  notions  of  his  girth  was,  and  would  get 
the  most  contradictory  replies ;  and  as  we  neared  and 
neared  the  trunk  of  that  tree,  it  appeared  literally  to 
grow  as  we  looked  and  came  closer,  till,  to  the  surprise 


A   Monster  Pine.  173 

of  my  friends,  it  was  found  that  it  would  take  three 
persons  with  arms  outstretched  at  full  to  go  round  its 
mighty  bole.  Many  giant  oaks  and  beeches  have  I 
seen  in  the  New  Forest,  at  Bushey,  down  in  the  rich 
park  lands  of  Suffolk,  and  have  looked  on  great  firs  in 
Scotland,  but  I  never  remember  to  have  seen  so  great 
a  pine  as  this — "  Fit  to  be  the  mast  of  some  great 
ammiral,"  to  quote  Milton.  Why,  the  ship  that  could 
take  this  pine  for  a  mast  would  make  of  the  Great 
Eastern  but  a  tiny  dwarf. 

And  then  there  is  the  middle  walk,  with  the  pines  so 
regularly  ranged  in  line  on  both  sides,  that  the  place 
veritably  looks  what  it  has  been  called,  The  Cathedral 
— the  mighty  branches  interlocking  overhead,  and  the 
light,  passing  through  them,  taking  that  mysterious 
blue  tint  and  making  the  looker-on  think  of  the  "  dim 
religious  light."  It  is  not  difficult  to  be  in  a  certain 
way  poetic  in  such  a  place  as  this,  and  so  I  may  be 
excused  quoting  here  what  was  indeed  suggested  on 
this  very  spot  :— 

A  sea  of  fern,  far-sweeping,  wave  on  wave, 
With  rhythmic  answer  to  the  wind  that  steals 
Through  pillared  stems,  and  yonder  arch  reveals 

Blue  glory  islanded  like  faery  cave, 

Withdrawn  from  touch  of  all  rude  winds  that  rave 
Round  men's  abodes  ;  blue-dim  the  light  that  seals 
The  sense  of  worship,  making  mild  appeals, 

Like  mellowed  sunshine  through  Cathedral  nave, 

When  low  the  organ  notes  swell  out  and  die, 

•*  And  rise  again  to  flow  in  fuller  strain  : 

The  spirit  of  the  woods  is  waiting  there 
To  wed  the  mystery  of  tears  and  pain 

In  human  life  with  solace  soft  and  fair, 
Still  found  in  nature's  holy  constancy. 

And  then  did  I  not  once  make  a  journey  down  there 
in  mid- winter,  "after  a  heavy  snowfall,  just  to  see  how 


174        My  Favourite  Summer -Houses. 

that  pine  wood  looked  in  white  ?  Still  and  calm,  like 
a  fairy  world  of  silence  and  wonder,  where  no  sound 
may  mar  the  witchery  of  effect.  No,  not  quite  so; 
listen,  what  is  that  ?  Is  it  the  snow  with  crispy  whis- 
pering, or  are  the  sounds  ghostly,  or  are  there  spirits 
abroad  ?  Hark  !  don't  you  hear  something  go  scratch, 
scratch,  with  momentary  pauses  between  ?  Is  it  in  the 
tops  of  the  trees,  or  down  on  the  snow-covered  ground  ? 
You  listen  hard  and  satisfy  yourself  it  is  borne  to 
your  ear  along  the  surface  of  the  tell-tale  snow.  It  is 
the  rabbits  over  yonder  busy  clearing  the  snow  from 
the  mouth  of  their  burrows,  and  trying  to  scrape  off 
enough  of  the  mantle  of  white  near  bye,  to  let  them  get 
a  nibble  at  the  green  herbage  below. 

And  as  you  listen  intently,  a  soft  sound  of  tap-tap- 
tapping  comes  to  you  from  the  other  side,  where 
beyond  the  firs  there  is  a  circle  in  which  there  are 
some  beeches,  birches,  and  "immemorial  elms."  That 
is  the  green  woodpecker,  who,  despite  the  frost  and 
snow,  pursues  his  calling  without  pause ;  but  just  now 
you  might  wait  long  enough  to  hear  his  strange  laugh, 
which  has  led  him  to  get  the  name  of  " yaffle"  in  some 
parts,  for  that  cry  or  sound,  pleu,  pleu,  pleu,  he  only 
emits  before  rain,  which  has  led  him  also  to  get  in 
some  places  the  name  of  the  "  rainbird  "  or  "  rain- 
fowl."  His  green  body  and  red  head  present  a  fine 
contrast  to  the  bark  of  the  trees  on  which  he  climbs 
and  taps ;  but  he  is  a  shy  and  cautious  fellow,  and  has 
a  clever  knack  of  always  retreating  to  the  other  side 
of  the  tree  on  the  slightest  hint  of  his  being  observed. 
It  is  very  funny  to  see  him  working  the  trees — a 
business  he  does  quite  systematically.  He  proceeds 
up  each  tree  from  the  foot,  taking  slant  lines  across 
and  across  it  again,  till  he  has  reached  a  considerable 
height.  When  he  has  done  with  that  one,  he  flies 


Woodpeckers.  175 


with  a  peculiarly  undulating  kind  of  flight — up  and 
down,  up  and  down — to  the  foot  of  another  tree,  and 
goes  through  the  very  same  process  with  it,  rising  up 
and  up  in  slanting  lines,  ever  tap-tapping  as  he  goes. 
Though  he  prefers  the  elm,  he  carefully  works,  as  well 
as  builds,  in  other  soft-wooded  trees  also,  and  may 
be  seen  ascending  the  beech  and  poplar,  even  the  pine 
and  fir.  Some  ornithologists  have  said,  indeed,  that 
they  prefer  the  woodpecker  in  the  winter-time  to  any 
other  season :  he  is  such  a  sprightly,  merry,  active 
fellow,  always  making  the  best  of  it.  And  I  am  almost 
fain  to  confess  that  so  do  I.  The  nest  of  the  woodpecker 
is  a  peculiar  specimen.  He  builds  it  in  a  hole  in  a 
decayed  tree,  and  is  ingenious  enough,  though  seldom 
seen.  The  woodpecker  is  a  characteristic  presence  in 
the  winter  woodland,  and  therefore  we  have  felt  justi- 
fied in  referring  to  it  here,  and  doing  it  honour  for  its 
persistency,  cleverness,  cheerfulness,  and  activity.  It 
has  sometimes,  indeed,  to  fight  for  its  own,  and  then 
it  fights  bravely — that  is,  when  a  thieving  starling 
wishes  to  oust  it  from  the  hole  it  has  made  for  its 
nest ;  and  as  the  woodpecker  cares  for  nothing  more 
for  nest-lining  than  a  few  chips  of  wood  he  has 
dropped  down  to  the  bottom  of  the  hole  as  he  was 
working,  and  Master  Starling,  it  would  seem,  knows 
this,  and  as  a  last  resort,  drops  down  sticks,  straws, 
and  other  nondescript  articles — and  then,  much  dis- 
liking these,  the  poor  woodpecker  abandons  the  nest 
to  his  enemy.  It  may  happen,  indeed,  if  there  are 
many  starlings  about,  that  the  poor  woodpecker  is 
thus  "  moved  on,"  and  "  moved  on  "  from  nest  to  nest, 
pitiable  bird  in  very  truth,  till  he  is  defeated  in  rearing 
even  one  brood  for  a  whole  season.  Its  favourite  trees 
are  the  chestnut,  sycamore,  and  silver  fir. 


176        My  Favourite  Summer- Houses. 

The  Duke  of  Argyll  in  Nature,  May  29,  1890,  gave 
the  following  account  of  observations  of  the  lesser 
spotted  woodpecker : — 

"  I  have  had  an  opportunity  lately  of  observing 
closely  the  habits  of  the  lesser  spotted  woodpecker 
(Picus  minor),  as  regards  the  very  peculiar  sound 
which  it  makes  upon  trees  by  the  action  of  its  bill. 

"  It  is  quite  certain  that  this  habit  has  nothing 
whatever  to  do  with  the  quest  for  food.  The  bird 
selects  one  particular  spot  upon  the  trunk  or  bough  of 
a  tree,  which  spot  is  naturally  sonorous  from  the  wood 
being  more  or  less  hollowed  by  decay.  The  bird 
returns  to  this  precise  spot  continually  during  the  day, 
and  produces  the  sound  by  striking  the  wood  on  the 
spot  with  its  bill,  the  stroke  being  repeated  with  a 
rapidity  which  is  really  incomprehensible,  for  it  quite 
eludes  the  eye.  It  is  effected  by  a  vibratory  motion 
of  the  head;  but  the  vibrations  are  so  quick  that  the 
action  looks  like  a  single  stroke.  After  short  pauses 
this  stroke  is  again  and  again  renewed,  sometimes  for 
several  minutes  together.  During  each  interval  the 
woodpecker  looks  round  it  and  below  it  with  evident 
delight,  and  with  an  apparent  challenge  of  admiration. 
The  beautiful  crimson  crest  is  more  or  less  erected. 

"The  whole  performance  evidently  takes  the  place 
of  the  vernal  song  in  other  birds ;  and  so  far  as  I 
know,  it  is  the  only  case  among  the  feathered  tribes 
in  which  vocal  is  replaced  by  instrumental  music. 
The  nest  does  not  appear  to  be  in  the  same  tree ;  but 
similar  spots  are  selected  on  several  trees  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood, and  as  the  sound  is  very  loud,  and  is  heard 
a  long  way  off,  the  hen  bird  when  sitting  is  serenaded 
from  different  directions.  I  have  not  seen  or  heard 
any  attempt  to  vary  the  note  produced  by  variations 


The  Cross-bill. 


177 


SPOTTED   WOODPECKER. 


either  in  the  strength  or  in  the  rapidity  of  the  stroke, 
or  by  changing  the  point  of  percussion  ;  but  I  have 
observed  that  the 
note  varies  more  or 
less  with  the  tree  on 
which  it  is  produced. 
During  about  six 
weeks  the  perform- 
ance has  been  fre- 
quent every  day,  and 
early  in  the  morn- 
ings during  part  of 
this  time  it  was  al- 
most constant.  Of 
late  it  has  been  discontinued.  In  all  probability" this 
is  parallel  to  the  well-know  fact  that  singing  birds 
cease  to  sing  after  the  eggs  are  hatched.  This  instru- 
mental substitute  for  singing  among  the  woodpeckers 
is  extremely  curious." 

And  no  sooner  have  you  satisfied  yourself  about  the 
woodpecker,  than  your  ear  is  attracted  by  a  smart 
snapping  rasping  kind  of  noise.  You  try  to  trace  the 
direction  from  which  it  comes,  and  can  scarcely  be- 
lieve your  eyes  when  you  see  a  bird  which  looks  more 
like  a  miniature  parrot  than  anything  else — for  it  is 
brilliantly  coloured — a  delicious  mixture  of  brown  or 
bronze,  red  and  green,  and  which  seems  now  to  be 
hanging  by  the  bill  from  a  branch  and  swinging  there, 
clearly  defined  against  the  white  background  as  it 
moves.  YOU  can  scarce  believe  your  eyes,  for  you  did 
not  believe  that  the  winter  woodland  held  so  beautiful 
a  denizen.  You  try  to  approach  the  tree  on  which  it 
is,  and  you  find  it  far  less  shy  than  the  woodpecker, 
for  it  remains  in  your  view  till  you  are  within  a  yard 

M 


i  78        My  Favourite  Slimmer- Houses. 


or  two  of  it,  and  keeps  on  at  its  business  all  the  while. 
It  seizes  a  fir-cone  in  one  claw,  while  with  the  other  it 
clings  to  the  branch,  and  with  its  bill,  which  you  now 
notice  is  very  singularly  shaped  (the  mandibles  curved 
and  crossing  each  other),  and  which  seems  at  first 
sight  so  awkward,  it  dextrously  breaks  open  the  fir- 
cone, extracting  the  seeds,  which  form  its  food.  This 
is  the  delightful  cross-bill,  rather  rare,  and  so-called  on 
account  of  the  crossing  of  its  mandibles,  which  show 
a  remarkable  instance  of  adaptation  to  mode  of  life. 
Now  this  bird,  through  being  hunted  and  killed,  is 
seldom  seen.  Its  note,  jip,  jip,  jip,  frequently  repeated, 
is  very  characteristic. 

"  Tap,  tap,  tap  "  once  more,  but  not  quick  and  con- 
tinuous like  that  of  the  woodpecker,  and  consisting  only 
of  two  or  three  taps  delivered  with  far  more  force. 

What  is  that  ?  you  in- 
quire. Well,  it  is  only 
the  nuthatch,  which  is 
to  be  found  pretty  well 
wherever  the  wood- 
pecker is ;  for  the  nut- 
hatch likes  well  to  get 
a  home  in  a  deserted 
woodpecker's  nest.  But 
the  nuthatch  being  a 
much  smaller  bird  than 
the  other,  plasters  up 
the  hole  till  it  will  no 
more  than  admit  his  tinier  figure ;  and  he  colours  the 
mud,  or  other  material  with  which  he  does  it,  to  a 
fine  likeness  with  the  tree-bark  where  it  is,  and  the 
nest  is  usually  formed  of  oak  leaves.  The  clay  which 
the  nuthatch  uses  for  this  purpose,  it  glues  together 


NUTHATCH. 


The  Nuthatch.  179 


with  a  saliva-like  fluid,  so  that  it  hardens  to  withstand 
rain  and  sun.  When  roosting,  they  sleep,  like  the  tits, 
with  the  head  and  back  downwards.  The  strong  tap- 
tap  is  the  sound  of  his  bill  against  a  nut  which  he  has 
placed  in  exact  position,  wedgelike,  in  some  crevice  in 
the  tree.  Swinging  in  a  branch,  with  head  downwards, 
he  dashes  against  it  with  full  force  of  bill,  body,  and 
wing,  and  soon  breaks  it  to  find  his  well-won  prize. 
And  yet  he  is  by  comparison  a  very  little  fellow,  only 
about  six  inches  in  length,  white  throated,  blue  on 
back  and  head,  and  bright  orange-brown  on  sides  and 
thighs ;  pretty,  smart,  active,  always  cheerful,  and  he 
who  does  much  to  make  the  winter  woodland  gay 
wherever  there  are  nut-bearing  trees.  Hazel  and  beech- 
nuts he  particularly  affects,  but  he  will  have  recourse 
to  acorns  sometimes  if  there  is  any  scarcity  in  these. 

And  what  is  that  which  now  passes  over  the  white 
like  a  cloud,  disturbing  our  reflections  ?  It  is  the  owl 
that,  now  the  snow  no  longer  falls,  is  out  to  see  if  no 
little  mice,  or  other  small  deer,  are  stirring  to  get  a 
meal  once  more,  that  he  may  make  a  meal  of  them. 
Soft,  soft,  and  silky-downy  is  his  flight;  he  consorts 
well  with  the  great,  silence-giving  ermine  cloak  in  which 
everything  is  wrapped.  Mister  Owl  does  sometimes, 
in  these  circumstances,  take  a  look  out  through  the 
day,  when  the  light  is  not  strong,  and  when  his  prey 
is  very  scarce  from  such  causes  as  this,  though  when 
once  the  mice  and  birds  begin  to  stir,  he  has  the  ad- 
vantage of  seeing  them  clear  against  the  white  ground. 
The  fir-cones  not  yet  fallen  slightly  wave,  though  there 
is  no  perceptible  wind,  and  as  we  walk  in  the  snow, 
the  weight  of  the  foot  now  and  then  makes  the  opened 
cones,  fallen  below,  crackle  as  we  walk,  with  much  sur- 
prise at  first.  Never  did  we  witness  a  scene  more 


180        My  Favourite  Summer- Houses. 

beautiful,  impressive,  and  poetical,  and  fairy-like.    Our 
presence  there  seemed  like  an  intrusion  that  only  too 

much  broke  the 
spell,  and  some  of 
the  glimpses  from 
the  borders  of  the 
wood  showed  the 
commonplace  trans- 
formed to  poetry  of 
landscape. 

Do  you  wonder 
at  my  so  cherishing 
the  memory  of  these  walks  ?  Then,  if  you  do,  you 
have  not  roamed  in  these  sweet  regions  as  I  have 


done,  at  all  seasons  and  all  hours  of  the  day,  and  some 
hours  even  of  the  night,  with  friends,  some  of  whom 


Constable's  Country.  181 

are  dead  now,  and  some  are  scattered  over  the  wide 
earth — and  before  you  blame  me  you  must  go  there 
and  see ! 

This  picture  carries  me  to  a  very  different  kind  of 
scenery,  to  that  prettiest  part  of  Essex  in  my  idea — the 
region  of  the  Stour  —  Constable's  country — not  flat 
as  is  the  prevailing  character  of  the  portion  of  Essex 
near  to  London,  of  which  the  region  of  the  Lea  is 
typical,  but  on  both  sides  rising  here  and  there  into 
rounded  hills,  prettily  wooded.  Dedham.  indeed,  lies  at 
the  foot  of  a  considerable  hill,  driving  down  which, 
towards  the  little  town,  one  of  the  sweetest  views 
possible  bursts  suddenly  upon  you  through  trees ;  and 
when  you  have  put  up  your  horse  and  trap  at  the  inn, 
passed  through  the  town,  and  walked  to  the  river, 
you  get  a  glimpse  of  Dedham  Mill — immortalised  by 
Constable — with  its  swirling  lade  and  deep  backwater, 
where  big  roach  lie,  fed  on  the  floury  morsels  from  the 
mill,  a  scene  which  Constable  has  painted  too,  and 
made  familiar  to  many  who  have  never  seen  it.  And 
over  yonder  on  the  Suffolk  side  is  East  Bergholt,  with 
its  church  tower  on  the  very  top  of  the  hill  rising  from 
amid  its  screen  of  trees,  often  painted  too  and  no 
wonder !  It  is  the  very  ideal  of  the  scenery  of  its 
kind.  Along  the  meadows  nearer  to  the  river  the  full- 
fed  cattle  lazily  browse  and  ruminate,  and  whisk  the 
flies  off  with  their  tails,  or  stand  knee-deep  in  the 
shallower  side  pools  left  here  and  there.  In  the  pic- 
ture, the  house  we  see  is  on  the  borders  of  one  of  the 
tributaries  further  down,  but  while  staj'ing  there  it  was 
our  delight  to  work  down  the  main  stream,  trolling  for 
pike,  or,  finding  some  favourite  pool,  would  sit  down 
and  enjoy  the  quieter  more  contemplative  exercise  of 
ensnaring  the  more  delicate-mouthed  roach. 


1 82        My  Favo^^,r^te  Summer -Houses. 


The  next  picture  takes  us  further  afield  still — to  Suf- 
folk. Oh,  the  delights  of  that  little  farm-house,  with  its 
back  to  the  water,  in  which  we  fished  day  by  day,  and  saw 
the  sun  set  gloriously  behind  the  gentle  hills.  The  water, 
here  drawn  off  into  a  lade  to  work  a  little  mill  below, 
kept  up  a  slumbrous  sound  like  a  lullaby  as  it  fell  with 
a  fine  dreamy  effect,  and  would  you  believe  it,  imparted 
some  sense  of  coolness  even  in  the  warmest  day,  for  it 
always  set  some  wind  stirring  with  refreshing  effect  ? 


fli/iff 


Falling  water  !  Minnehaha — laughing  water !  is  that  not 
what  the  sound  always  suggests  ?  Yes,  laughing  water  ! 
how  it  foamed  and  bubbled  as  it  fell,  lingered  for  a 
moment,  as  it  were,  and  then,  gathering  itself  together, 
went  on,  composed  and  steady,  singing  its  undersong, 
to  do  its  work,  to  flow  on  the  mill-wheel  and  grind  the 
corn,  throwing  off",  as  it  did  so,  diamonds  in  millions, 
forming  and  flashing  as  it  went,  rising,  falling,  falling, 
rising,  for  ever  "  a  thing  of  beauty  and  a  joy  for  ever ; " 
the  green  hues  on  the  old  wheel  sending  a  reflected 


An  Old  Rambling  House.  183 

colour  through  the  diamonds  sometimes  in  the  sun, 
more  especially  evening  sun,  like  a  magical  circle  or 
world  of  circles,  or  rainbows  within  rainbows,  and  star- 
lights intermingling. 

That  old  rambling  house,  with  its  dovecote  high  up 
in  the  gabled  end,  was  an  unceasing  delight  to  us ;  and 
how  these  pigeons  sat  in  session  sunning  themselves 
on  the  roof,  as  if  to  challenge  our  admiration,  pouting 
and  bowing,  yet  expecting  nothing  but  silent  admira- 
tion from  us  strangers — vain  things  !  But  they  showed 
a  very  different  temper  when  their  mistress,  who  fed 
them,  appeared.  They  looked,  indeed,  as  though  to 
them  she  was  the  impersonation  of  Providence,  as 
truly  she  was,  and  would  sometimes  perch  upon  her 
shoulders,  head,  and  even  her  hands,  coo-coo-cooing 
out  her  praises. 

And  then  the  orchard  of  which  we  had  the  freedom. 
To  sit  there  in  the  warm  afternoons  in  the  cool  shady 
summer-house,  and  watch  the  shadows  slowly  moving 
round  the  dial,  every  now  and  then  to  hear  the  ripened 
fruit  drop  on  the  grass  with  a  slight  thud,  and  to  see 
the  little  mice  come  running  out  and  make  the  faintest 
rustling  noise  among  the  pea-straw,  now  stripped  from 
the  stacks  and  laid  on  the  ground. 

A  very  favourite  excursion  we  made  then  was  to  an 
ancient  abbey  not  far  off,  where  in  old  days  the  monks 
lived  their  life,  and  no  doubt  attended  well  to  the  wants 
of  the  body,  while  they  strove  to  save  the  souls  of  others 
as  well  as  their  own.  On  almost  every  field  on  this 
farm  there  were  fish-ponds,  some  of  which  had  been 
artificially  made.  These  ponds  were  still  rich  in  tench 
and  roach  and  other  fishes ;  and  one  of  the  ponds  was 
really  a  moat  round  an  island  fed  from  a  small  stream 
some  distance  off.  There  were  little  rustic  bridges 


184        My  Favourite  Summer -Houses. 


across  the  moat  to  the  island,  on  which  were  wealth  of 
trees,  summer-seats,  and  "nestling  places  green ;"  and 
often  have  we  sat  and  dreamed  there,  always  welcome, 
or  in  the  golden  afternoons  have  lain  down  and  watched 
the  sullen  pike,  pleased  and  satisfied  for  once,  resting 
nigh  the  surface  in  the  deeper  parts  when  the  sun  was 
warm.  Nay,  we  have  even  tried  to  catch  them  in  the 
cunningest  way,  but  with  small  success,  owing  to  the 
peculiar  lie  of  the  ground  and  the  narrowness  of  this 
moat,  which,  however,  was  very  deep  at  parts  compared 
with  its  breadth.  This  brought  us  always  too  near  in 
view  of  the  fish.  This  circumstance  raised  the  question 


how  the  monks  in  old  days  could  have  got  out  the  fish 
as  they  wanted  them.  To  this  the  farmer  replied : 
"Well,  I  dunno:  if  they'd  'ad  guns  then,  I  should  'a 
said  as  they  shot  they  pike  as  I  'a  done,  times  an' 
times,  just  as  they  laid  on  top  o'  the  water  as  they  do 
now;  p'r'aps  they  were  good  archers,  as  I've  'eard  say 
monks  and  bishops  could  do  a  bit  o'  fightin'  in  them 
days,  and  shot  the  pike  so;  but  sartin  sure  am  I  as 
they  never  got  'em  out  there  wi'  rod  an'  line,  as  the 
cleverest  chaps  wi'  the  rod  ha'  cum  here  just  for  a  try, 
an'  never  a  one  on  um  did  any  better  than  you  'a  done, 
so  you  needn't  be  werry  much  ashamed  on  it." 


Pleasant  Sails. 


One  of  the  ponds,  the  biggest,  ran  close  up  to  the 
outhouses,  and  was  a  fair  sheet  of  water ;  there  we 
had  better  luck  with  rod  and  line,  and  many  a  pleasant 
sail  have  we  had  in  the  boat  that  lay  moored  in  the 
remote  corner  among  the  rushes. 


IX. 


THE   VILLAGE   WELL. 

UR  village  boasts  of  two  special  sources 
of  gossip.  The  shop — a  general  shop, 
where  everything  is  sold,  from  tin 
tacks  to  red  herrings,  from  tapes  and 
ribbons  to  ham  and  eggs,  and  from 
needles  and  thread  to  boots  and  shoes,  which  scent  all 
the  place,  there  being  truly  nothing  like  leather — is  an 
interesting  centre,  where  you  could  do  a  good  deal  in 
the  study  of  character.  There  come  tripping  in  the 
wives  and  daughters  of  the  small  farmers  round  to  sell 
their  produce — butter,  eggs,  and  so  on — or  to  exchange 
them  for  various  commodities  they  cannot  themselves 
produce  and  yet  cannot  do  without.  There,  in  front  of 
the  shop  and  the  inn  next  door  to  it  in  the  evenings 
the  young  men  congregate  after  work  is  done,  and 
straggle  in  irregular  little  groups  over  to  the  village 
green,  a  silent  witness  of  the  fact  that  the  vicar  and 
the  rest  have  failed  to  do  what  they  might  long  ere 
this  have  done — institute  a  reading-room,  well  warmed 
and  well  lighted,  and  where  a  cup  of  tea  or  coffee 
might  be  had.  Parish  councils  may  do  something  to 
end  this,  though  the  lounging  habit  formed  through 
generations  will  be  hard  to  root  out.  The  other  centre 
is  the  village  well,  which  is  beautifully  situated  in  a 
bit  of  road  that  dips  down  at  the  west  end  of  the 

1 86 


"Drawing  Water!"  187 

village,  and  is  picturesquely  overarched  with  trees, 
causing  a  moisture  almost  always  to  be  over  that  bit 
of  road.  There  come  the  women,  as  in  the  days  of 
patriarchs  and  prophets  in  the  East,  to  "  draw  water; " 
and  if  you  were  a  curious  visitor,  intent  on  studying  the 
ways  of  the  natives,  you  would  soon  discover  that  if 
the  pulse  of  the  village  is  beating  quick  under  any 
love  affair,  scandal,  poaching  prosecution,  or  quarrel, 
it  soon  makes  itself  felt  at  the  village  well.  No  sooner 
does  one  woman,  probably  the  leading  gossip,  in  the 
early  forenoon  make  her  appearance,  than  she  is  fol- 
lowed by  two  or  three  more,  who  by  some  secret 
instinct  know  that  she  has  gone  before  them,  and  there 
they  stand,  tongues  going,  their  pails  on  the  ground,  and 
arms  akimbo,  while  she  makes  a  very  long  business 
indeed  of  working  that  handle  to  recover  her  pail, 
which  goes  swinging  and  making  a  clatter  midway  as 
she  unsteadily  goes  winding  and  winding. 

Then  the  same  process  is  repeated  by  each  in  turn, 
while  all  the  others  wait ;  and  then,  each  with  her  pail 
of  water,  they  come  slowly  along,  holding  their  heads 
as  close  together  as  they  can,  so  that  no  sweet  morsel 
may  be  lost  to  any;  and  there  is  usually  in  these 
cases  a  pausing  at  the  door  of  each,  before  she  enters 
to  resume  her  domestic  work.  The  village  well  is  the 
housewives'  parliament,  where,  if  formal  motions  are 
not  made  or  passed,  a  common  policy  is  often  an- 
nounced and  adopted,  alike  as  to  how  some  farmer  is 
to  be  dealt  with  who  has  chastised  Tommy  Jones  for 
climbing  over  the  walls  of  his  orchard  or  trespassing 
in  his  fields,  or  the  gamekeeper  who  has  pounced  on 
some  of  the  menfolk  laying  snares  in  the  wood,  or  the 
policeman  who  has  been  too  officious  in  taking  notice 
of  some  one's  visits  to  some  other  one. 


i88 


The   Village   Well. 


In  the  evening,  too,  it  is  funny  to  notice  how  the 
young  women  home  from  work  will  be  moved  to  help 
mother  by  bringing  water  for  her.  Fanny  Wilkins 
will  be  seen  tripping  along  with  her  pail,  singing  to 
herself,  as  her  left  hand  goes  over  her  plenteous  fair 
hair,  coiled  up  in  a  big  cushion  at  the  back  of  her 
head,  to  make  sure  that  it  is  all  trim  and  tidy,  and 


looking  as  though  she  had  no  idea  anybody  else  was 
likely  to  be  about  there  just  then.  Before  she  has 
reached  the  well,  Johnny  Amos  steals  forth  from  some 
hidling  corner  and  joins  her  with  "  How  be  you, 
Fanny  ? "  at  which  she  pretends  great  surprise  to 
see  him  of  all  possible  people ;  and  then  they  walk 
on  to  the  well,  where  Fanny  takes  long  to  get  her 
water  up  somehow,  and  finds  it  so  hard  and  is  so 


Human  Nature!  189 

awkward  at  it  that  Johnny  has  to  come  and  help 
her,  his  right  arm  almost  passing  round  her  as  he 
takes  her  place  and  gently  moves  her  away.  Before 
they  have  got  their  water-pail  up  and  unhooked,  another 
pair  are  there,  and  as  they  move  homewards  they 
meet  another  pair;  and  each  young  woman  goes  home 
and  tells  that  she  saw  So-and-so  and  So-and-so 
walking  out  together,  and  that  they  will  soon  have  a 
marriage  in  the  village,  and  the  dance  on  the  green 
in  honour  of  it.  Under  all  disguise  of  circumstances 
isn't  human  nature  much  the  same  all  round  ?  The 
village  well  is  a  sort  of  conservatory  for  these  humble 
folks,  to  which  they  retire  to  have  a  chat  and  quiet 
fun.  Verily,  there  is  much  human  nature  in  man, 
and  in  woman  too. 


X. 

RUSHES. 

.    - 

«_-.>  HO  that  has  read  them  can  ever 
forget  Mr.  Ruskin's  wonderful 
passages  on  the  grasses.  This 
commonest  of  all  plants,  trode 
upon  with  indifference,  made  commonplace  by  its  wide 
distribution  and  persistency,  is  shown  by  him  to  be 
little  short  of  a  miracle.  -Never  was  eloquence  more 
convincing,  nor  rhetoric  more  effectively  directed.  He 
glanced  at  the  more  ornamental  grasses  rising  in  mimic 
towers  to  beautify  the  most  neglected  corners,  often 
hanging  out  their  seed-like  pearls  at  the  end  of  silken 
threads  to  add  a  delicacy  and  grace  to  what  else  were 
wildernesses.  But  his  highest  praise  was  reserved  for 
the  common  grass  of  the  field,  to  which  we  owe,  among 
other  things,  that  satisfaction  to  the  eye  in  looking  on 
a  wide  landscape.  The  more  it  is  crushed  down,  walked 
over,  rolled,  nibbled  of  cattle  and  sheep,  the  more 
robust  it  becomes  at  the  root,  and  the  more  succulent 
it  grows  in  the  young  shoots  it  is  ever  sending  up — 
the  more  the  true  servant  of  man,  the  more  it  is  laid 
under  contribution  for  the  needs  of  man  and  beast. 

Another  series  of  very  common  and  beautiful  objects 
much  overlooked  and  maligned  are  the  rushes.  "  Green 
grow  the  rushes,  O,"  but  nowadays  few  care  to  attend 
to  the  modest  rushes  that  in  marshy  places,  by  the 

sides  of  streams,  and  in  ditches  and  corners  of  boggy 

190 


The  Common  Rusk. 


191 


bits  of  land,  rise  up,  like  wardens  of  the  waste,  and 
in  their  season  make  a  brightness  of  their  own.  How 
straight,  and  clear,  and  shining  they  are,  with  their 
fresh  glancing  green,  that  answers  so  nicely  to  wind  and 
sun,  and,  when  their  flowering  time  is  come,  they  look 
like  soldiers  carrying  spoils,  or  better  still,  banners  of 
victory.  In  old  days  the  common  rush  had  a  use. 
The  pith  of  it  furnished  the  best  wick  that  could  be 
found  for  the  oil-lamp — in  Scotland  called  a  "  crusie," 
diminutive  of  "  cruse."  It  was  a  common  thing  for  a 
whole  family  to  turn  out  for  a  day  or  two  at  certain 
seasons  to  gather  rushes  by  the  burn  and  ditch  sides. 
From  these  in  the  evenings  the  pith  would  be  extracted, 
cut  into  lengths,  tied  up  in  bundles,  and  put  away  for 
future  use,  stored  in  dry  places  with  the  greatest  care. 
Over  wide  districts  no  other  light  was  known  than 
that  derived  from  this  rush-pith  saturated  with  oil. 
These  were  the  days 
when  nolucifermatches 
as  yet  existed,  when 
the  only  way  to  get 
light  was  by  the  slow 
and  clumsy  process  of 
striking  a  spark  from 
a  flint  with  steel  upon 
tinder,  and  then  light- 
ing at  this  tinder  a  sul- 
phur:tipped  "  spunk  " 
or  match. 

In    our    early    days 
away   up    in    Glenesk, 
beyond  the   village  of 
Edzell   (to  which   we   learn  a  railway  is   now    being 
constructed  from  Brechin,  so  as  to  join  this  old  capital 


192 


Rushes. 


of  "  the  land  of  the  Lindsays  "  with  the  big  world  and 
full  civilization),  how  often  have  we  wandered  by  strips 
of  wood  in  the  centre  of  great  sweeps  of  boulder-dotted 
heath  land  to  gather  the  rushes ;  and  how  often  have 
we  lain  in  a  sheltered  corner — sheltered  alike  from 
wind  and  sun  by  the  tall  rushes  among  which  we 
worked — and  through  the  whole  afternoon  gathered 
and  patiently  extracted  piths,  getting  more  and  more 
up  to  it  by  practice  till  the  soft  white  rounded  substance 

would  whirl,  twisting  from 
the  greeny  case,  like  the 
shavings  from  a  plane  or 
a  spokeshave,  to  return 
proudly,  our  prize  in  our 
hand,and  receive  praise  and 
commendation — more  es- 
teemed, perhaps,  than  any 


praise  or  commendation  we 
have  since  received. 

The  only  service  played 
by  the  pith  of  the  rush  now- 
adays, so  far  as  we  know, 
is  in  making  the  wick  of 
certain  night-lights. 
Most  beautiful  and  imposing  of  all  the  rushes  is, 
perhaps,  the  bulrush,  which  has  come  in  for  a  good 
deal  of  notice  from  the  poets.  Few  readers  of  poetry 
but  will  remember  Lord  Tennyson's  fine  lines  in  the 
"  May  Queen"  : — 

"  When  the  flowers  come  again,  mother,  beneath  the  waning  light, 
You'll  never  see  me  more  in  the  long  grey  fields  at  night ; 
When  from  the  dry  dark  wold  the  summer  airs  blow  cool 
On  the  oat-grass,  and  the  sword-grass,  and  the  bulrush  in  the 
pool." 


Water- Birds  and  Rushes. 


193 


In  "The  Dance  of  the  Flowers  in  Welcome  of  the 
Spring  "  we  read  : — 

"  The  bulrush,  safely  guarded  about 
With  full  drawn  sword,  was  the  sentinel  stout 
That  o'er  the  gathering  kept  close  ward, 
As  the  flowers  danced  merry  upon  the  sward  : 
And  the  water-soldiers  their  adjutants  were, 
Who  on  their  shoulders  ball-epaulets  wear." 

The  rushes  are  close  associates  of  the  flags  and 
sedges ;  they  are,  in  fact,  the  democracy  of  which  these 
are  the  aristo- 
crats. Not  a 
bit  of  waste 
water  but  the 
rushes  con- 
trive to  throw 
some  gleam  of 
colour  and  re- 
lief over  it ; 
nor  do  they 
seem  wholly 
out  of  place  on  the  marshy  borders  of  lonely  mountain 
tarns  and  lochs,  where  no  such  high-bred  plant  as  the 
wild  iris  would  or  could  set  its  foot,  having,  despite 
robustness,  a  certain  delicacy  of  taste  which  the  rush 
affects  not.  The  water-birds  love  the  shelter  of  the 
rushes,  and  are  often  found  nestling  among  or  under 
them.  .  The  wild-ducks,  the  coots,  and  the  dabchicks 
are  their  patrons,  and  are  never  felt  to  be  out  of  place 
in  their  vicinity ;  and  efts  and  newts  and  frogs,  and  all 
their  confreres,  are  easily  kept  in  soft  association  with 
the  rushes.  Even  on  streams  of  some  little  importance, 
where  trout  of  a  considerable  weight  may  be  found  by 
the  skilful  fly-fisher,  there  are  bights  and  little  bays 

N 


194  Rushes. 


where  the  water  lingers,  spreading  out  into  delight- 
ful tiny  crescents,  and  where  the  rush  contests  the 
right  of  place  with  some  of  its  higher-born  brethren, 
and  seldom  fails  in  holding  its  own.  If  it  does  not, 
like  the  daffodils  of  Wordsworth,  flash  upon  that  in- 
ward eye  which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude,  it  is  gratefully 
remembered  by  many  for  sake  of  the  useful  service  it 
yielded  in  byegone  da}^s. 

And  the  rushes  and  sedges  have,  for  most  part,  their 
unfailing  company  of  flowers  :  the  water  plantain,  with 
its  broad  leaves,  the  yellow  iris,  and  the  common  high 
flag-flower,  resting  amid  its  handsome  greyish-green 
leaves,  so  tender  that  it  hardly  bears  being  touched ;  and 
water  forget-me-not,  and  loosestrife,  and  brooklime,  and 
crowfoot  yield  their  welcome  variety.  The  flowers 
form  a  goodly  fellowship,  and  in  the  most  unlikely 
places  they  grow  and  cluster  and  shed  their  wealth  of 
light  and  beauty. 


XI. 

BEES  AND  BEE- 
KEEPING. 

:HERE  is  in  our  village 
one  bond  of  good  feel- 
ing and  amity  which  was 
so  unexpected  to  me  that 
I  cannot  but  make  special  record  of  it.  The  same  thing 
may  exist  in  other  parochial  communities,  but  it  did 
not  come  before  me  in  any  other  place  I  visited  in  the 
same  definite  and  effective  way  as  it  has  in  our  parish. 
This  is  bee-keeping.  The  country  round,  owing  to  the 
gradual  enclosure  of  heaths  and  commons,  is  certainly 
not  so  good  for  this  purpose  as  it  once  was;  but 
gardens  abound,  and  so  conservative  are  the  people  in 
following  the  habits  of  their  forefathers,  that  there  are 
but  few  houses  or  cottages  that  do  not  have  their 
"  skeps  "  of  bees ;  and  the  business  of  looking  after 
swarms,  in  which  neighbour  willingly  helps  neighbour, 
forms  one  of  the  most  pleasant  elements  in  the  life. 

But  you  might  live  a  long  time  without  hearing  much 
of  it,  if  you  did  not  begin  to  keep  bees  yourself  as  I 
did.  Then  you  suddenly  become  the  centre  of  a  kind 
of  informal  society,  in  which  everything  about  the  bees 
is  discussed — not  only  the  quantities  of  honey  obtained, 
but  also  points  relative  to  the  habits  of  the  bees,  and 

the  best   means  of   "strengthing"  them   through   the 

195 


196  Bees  and  Bee- Keeping. 

winter  and  guarding  them ;  for  it  is  a  fatal  mistake  on 
the  part  of  many  people  in  towns  to  suppose  that  bees 
simply  hibernate  the  whole  winter  and  never  wake  up. 
On  the  contrary  they  are  very  wakeful,  much  more  so 
than  the  bee-master  always  wants,  and  in  certain  kinds 
of  weather  will  give  him  a  good  deal  of  trouble  and 
concern.  In  the  occasional  blinks  of  warmer  sunny 
weather  we  sometimes  have  in  winter  at  mid-day, 
certain  of  the  bees  will  be  apt  to  steal  out,  and  to  be- 
come so  intoxicated  with  the  sweets  of  the  ivy  flowers, 
that  they  will  stay  too  long  and  get  benumbed  with 
frost,  and  never  manage  to  get  back  to  the  hive.  I 
have  seen  them  just  struggle  to  get  on  to  the  little 
platform  in  front  of  the  hive,  and  die  there  from  frost. 

The  bee-master  must  prevent  this  by  dint  of  various 
attentions.  A  small  tube  slipped  into  the  hole  of  the 
hive  with  honey  and  sugar  is  a  good  one,  and  a  very 
peculiar  thing  may  be  noted  with  regard  to  the  intelli- 
gence of  bees  (of  some  bees,  at  all  events)  in  this 
matter.  As  soon  as  their  tube  is  empty,  instead  of 
flying  out  in  the  mid-day  "  blink,"  they  will  employ 
themselves  in  hauling  this  tube  right  out  of  the  hive  to 
the  little  platform  in  front,  so  that  their  condition  or 
want  cannot  be  overlooked  by  the  bee-master.  At 
first  I  fancied  this  was  due  to  intermeddlers,  and  made 
many  inquiries  of  those  about  the  house  whether  the 
bee's  tubes  had  been  touched,  but  met  with  decided 
"noes"  at  every  point.  Mentioning  this  to  the  man 
from  whom  I  had  got  my  "  swarms,"  he  said,  "  'Tis 
queer,  ain't  it,  but  that's  what  my  bees  allus  do ;  and, 
would  you  believe  it  o'  them  mites  o'  things  ?  I  ha' 
seen  'em  with  my  own  eyes  a  pullin'  of  the  tube  out, 
just  like  a  row  of  sailors  a  pullin'  of  a  boat  down  the 
beach  to  the  water — so  many  one  side,  so  many  t'other 


Stray  Bees.  i  97 


side — one  of  the  prettiest  sights  as  you  could  ever 
see." 

I  could  not  credit  this  myself,  but  my  friend  went 
just  then  and  took  a  look  at  my  tube.  "  Oh,"  he  said, 
"  I  am  summat  afeard  as  'tis  too  wide  for  the  bees  to 
do  the  work  so  neatly  as  I  have  seen  'em  a  doin'  of  it. 
You  make  a  tube  a  little  bit  smaller,  sir,  just  so  much 
as  will  let  the  bees  have  room  to  move  at  each  side, 
no  more,  and  then,  if  I  ain't  mestaken,  you  will  see 
what  I  war  a  tellin'  you  on,  if  you  come  to  them  hives 
about  mid-day  the  third  day  after."  I  did  so,  and 
'twas  just  as  he  had  said,  and  certainly  'twas  a  very 
pretty  sight. 

Then  this  same  bee-master  told  me  that  he  had 
often  observed  stray  bees  that  had  swarmed  from  a 
hive  go  back,  from  some  cause,  to  the  parent  hive. 
They  were  never  tolerated  there,  but  quickly  turned 
out ;  and  not  only  so,  but  for  most  part  killed,  and  not 
only  that,  but  the  bees  proper  to  the  hive  would  drag 
them  over  the  little  platform  in  front  of  the  hive,  and 
then  fly  down,  work  away  till  they  had  made  a  small 
hole,  and  roll  little  pellets  of  sod  over  the  bodies,  and 
thus  bury  them.  He  had  seen  this  done  not  once  but 
scores  of  times,  for  he  was  an  indefatigable  watcher  and 
a  thorough  friend  of  the  bees.  This  does  not  quite 
agree  with  some  observations  of  Sir  John  Lubbock, 
but  that  may  pass. 

Then  sometimes  a  vagrant  wasp  would  intrude  into 
the  hive,  and  the  bees  had  a  very  short  method  with 
him.  They  directed  their  whole  power  of  attack  on 
one  point — to  tearing  off  one  of  the  wings  of  the  wasp, 
which  they  were  not  long  in  effecting ;  then  Mr.  Wasp 
was  helpless,  could  only  buzz  and  pitifully  gyrate,  and, 
thus  maimed,  he  was  bundled  out  of  the  hive  and 


198  Bees  and  Bee- Keeping. 

thrown  on  the  ground,  but  the  bees  did  not  do  the 
wasp  the  honour  of  burial. 

But  the  bees  have  sometimes  more  gigantic  intruders, 
with  whom  we  should  suppose  it  would  be  much  more 
difficult  for  them  to  deal ;  yet  they  surmount  the  diffi- 
culty in  the  most  ingenious  and  safest  manner,  as  the 
following  passage  from  a  good  authority  will  show : — 

"  There  are  some  actions  of  bees  which  we  hesitate, 
for  want  of  confidence,  whether  to  ascribe  to  an  innate 
instinct  or  to  a  more  reasonable  faculty  of  their  minds. 
If,  as  will  often  happen,  a  snail  steals  into  the  hive,  he 
is  at  once  attacked  and  stung  to  death.  But  the  bees 
are  not  sufficiently  strong  to  remove  such  .a  leviathan ; 
and  yet,  if  he  remains,  his  putrefying  carcase  will  be 
enough  to  breed  a  pestilence  in  the  city.  When  the 
Lilliputians  wished  to  kill  Gulliver,  they  were  deterred 
by  the  selfsame  fear.  But  the  bees  contrive  to  rid 
themselves  of  their  Gulliver  in  a  very  ingenious  manner. 
They  cannot  remove  him,  it  is  true ;  but  they  can,  and 
do,  embalm  him.  They  cover  him  all  over  with  that 
glutinous  substance  called  'propolis/  and  this  keeps 
out  the  air,  and  prevents  the  body  from  decomposition. 
If,  however,  the  snail  be  one  that  wears  a  shell  on  his 
back,  the  bees  merely  cover  over  the  door  of  the  shell, 
and  leave  the  captive  to  the  fate  which  is  inevitable. 
These  processes,  though  seeming  to  go  beyond  what 
one  conceives  to  be  the  beaten  track  of  instinct,  are, 
however,  so  universally  adopted,  that  one  is  almost 
driven  to  the  conclusion  that  instinct  is,  after  all,  the 
motive  force  under  which  they  are  performed.  There 
is,  however,  a  class  of  cases  which  it  is  evident  that  the 
bees  are  accustomed  to  encounter,  and  which  would, 
we  may  suppose,  be  differently  treated  in  different 
hives." 


A   Curious  Contest.  199 

The  very  able  observer,  F.  Miiller,  states  an  observa- 
tion of  his  own,  which  must  be  considered  as  alone 
sufficient  to  prove  that  bees  are  able  to  communicate 
information  to  one  another : — 

"  Once  "  (he  says,  "  Letter  to  Mr.  Darwin,"  published 
in  Nature,  vol.  x.  p.  102),  "  I  assisted  at  a  curious 
contest  which  took  place  between  the  queen  and  the 
other  bees  in  one  of  my  hives,  which  throws  some 
light  on  the  intellectual  faculties  of  these  animals. 
A  set  of  forty-seven  cells  have  been  filled,  eight  on 
a  newly  completed  comb,  thirty-five  on  the  following, 
and  four  around  the  first  cell  of  a  new  comb.  When 
the  queen  had  laid  eggs  in  all  the  cells  of  the  two  older 
combs,  she  went  several  times  round  their  circumference 
(as  she  always  does,  in  order  to  ascertain  whether  she 
has  not  forgotten  any  cell),  and  then  prepared  to  retreat 
into  the  lower  part  of  the  breeding-room.  But  as  she 
had  overlooked  the  four  cells  of  the  new  comb,  the 
workers  ran  impatiently  from  this  part  to  the  queen, 
pushing  her  in  an  odd  manner  with  their  heads,  as 
they  did  also  other  workers  they  met  with.  In  con- 
sequence, the  queen  began  again  to  go  round  on  the 
two  older  combs,  but  as  she  did  not  find  any  cell 
wanting  an  egg,  she  tried  to  descend,  but  everywhere 
she  was  pushed  back  by  the  workers.  This  contest 
lasted  for  a  rather  long  while,  till  the  queen  escaped 
without  having  completed  her  work.  Thus  the  workers 
knew  how  to  advise  the  queen  that  something  was  as 
yet  to  be  done,  but  they  knew  not  how  to  show  her 
where  it  had  to  be  done."* 

Mr.  John  Burroughs  has  some  very  exquisite  obser- 
vations of  bees.  Here  are  two  : — 

"  When  a  bee  brings  pollen  into  the  hive,  he  advances 
*  Romanes'  "Animal  Intelligence,"  p.  157. 


2oo  Bees  and  Bee- Keeping. 

to  the  cell  in  which  it  is  to  be  deposited,  and  kicks  it 
off  as  one  might  his  overalls  or  rubber  boots,  making 
one  foot  help  the  other ;  then  he  walks  off  without  ever 
looking  behind  him.  Another  bee,  one  of  the  indoor 
hands,  comes  along  and  rams  it  down  with  his  head  and 
packs  it  into  the  cell,  as  the  dairymaid  packs  butter  into 
a  firkin."* 

And  again : 

"  I  have  a  theory  that  when  bees  leave  the  hive, 
unless  there  is  some  special  attraction  in  some  other 
direction,  they  generally  go  against  the  wind.  They 
would  thus  have  the  wind  with  them  when  they 
returned  home  heavily  laden,  and  with  those  little 
navigators  the  difference  is  an  important  one.  With 
a  full  cargo,  a  stiff  headwind  is  a  great  hindrance. 
But  fresh  and  empty-handed,  they  can  face  it  with 
more  ease."*)- 

The  acquaintances  and  friends  the  bees  have  been 
the  medium  of  bringing  me  are  many;  and  from  the 
many  conversations  I  have  had  writh  them — conversa- 
tions as  pleasant  and  obliging  and  neighbourly  as  they 
were  informing — I  have  been  led  to  form  far  higher 
ideas  of  the  English  peasant's  power  of  observing  and 
of  reasoning  than  I  had  done  before.  They  greatly  err 
who  fancy  the  agricultural  labourer,  in  our  part  of  the 
country  at  all  events,  is  a  mere  clod,  without  power  of 
observation,  perception,  sensitiveness,  or  delicacy.  In 
some  things,  the  truth  is,  he  puts  his  town-brother  to 
shame,  only  to  strangers  is  he  shy,  and  is  little  apt  at 
expressing  himself  in  such  a  style  as  they  could  under- 
stand. The  bees  with  us,  at  all  events,  are  a  good  bond 
of  union,  doing  not  a  little  to  break  down  some  of  the 
prejudices  of  caste  and  class,  a  service  for  which  I  am  not 
*  "  Locusts  and  Wild  Honey."  t  Pepacton,  p.  104. 


Sir  John  Lubbock.  201 

aware  that  they  have  hitherto  been  duly  or  sufficiently 
celebrated. 

Sir  John  Lubbock,  so  far  as  his  experiments  have 
gone,  has  not  found  the  bees  nearly  so  clever  and 
intelligent  as  the  ants ;  but  I  am  sure  he  would  hardly 
subscribe  to  the  statement  that  the  bees  are  as  lazy  as 
loafers,  and  work  at  the  most  only  three  months  out  of 
the  twelve,  considering  the  many  and  the  long  journeys 
he  has  faithfully  traced  day  by  day.  At  the  same  time, 
I  am  certain  that  he  would  not  pronounce  the  bees  to  be 
free  from  faults  either.  There  is  one  vice,  as  already 
hinted,  to  which  they  are  sometimes  inclined.  Like 
many  other  animals  (and  men  too !)  who  bear  a  high 
character  for  industry  and  respectability,  they  are  only 
too  apt,  many  of  them,  to  go  on  the  "  spree,"  or  to  have 
a  "  bouse."  It  is  notorious  that  they  will  sometimes  get 
tipsy ;  and  if  flowers  of  certain  plants  are  within  reach, 
will  indulge  themselves  by  imbibing  intoxicants  or 
narcotics  with  so  great  avidity,  that  stray  ones  now 
and  then  will  be  unable  to  fly  from  the  source  of  their 
ill,  and  are  to  be  found  hanging  there  quite  stupid  after 
sunset,  and  no  doubt  perish  from  cold.  Bumble  bees 
often,  and  hive  bees  sometimes,  have  been  found  in 
this  tipsy  condition  on  the  flowers  of  certain  species 
of  the  willow. 

In  the  Gardener's  Chronicle ',  so  far  back  as  1841, 
this  extract  will  be  found  : — 

"  We  regret  extremely  to  announce  that  some  honest 
humble  bees  of  our  acquaintance  have  taken  to  drink- 
ing, and'  to  such  an  extent  that  they  are  daily  found 
reeling  and  tumbling  about  the  doors  of  their  places 
of  call — the  blossoms  of  the  passion-flower,  which 
flow  over  with  intoxicating  beverage — and  there,  not 
content  with  drinking  like  decent  bees,  they  plunge 


2O2  Bees  and  Bee- Keeping. 

their  great  hairy  heads  into  the  beautiful  goblet  that 
nature  has  provided  for  them,  formed  in  such  plants, 
thrusting  each  other  aside,  or  climbing  over  each  other's 
shoulders,  till  the  flowers  bend  beneath  their  weight. 
After  a  time  they  become  so  stupid  that  it  is  vain  to 
pull  them  by  the  skirts  and  advise  them  to  go  home, 
instead  of  wasting  their  time  in  tippling.     They  are, 
however,  so  good-natured  in  their  cups,  and  show  no 
resentment  at  being  disturbed ;  on  the  contrary,  they 
cling  to  their  wine  goblet,  and  crawl  back  to  it  as  fast 
as  they  are  pulled  away,  unless,  indeed,  they  fairly  lose 
their  legs  and  tumble  down,  in  which  case  they  lie 
sprawling  on  the  ground,  quite  unable  to  get  up  again." 
This  was  held  to  be  quite  in  contrast  with  the  tem- 
perate habits  of  hive  bees  by  Mr.  Wailes,  who  wrote 
in  the  Entomological  Magazine  (i.  525)  that  hive-bees, 
after  their  visits  to  his  passion-flowers,  hurried  back  to 
their  hive  as  soon  as  they  had  imbibed  their  supply  of 
nectar.     This  is  not  quite  our  own  experience,  either 
in  respect  to  the  passion-flower  or  to  the  sunflower, 
both  of  which,  at  certain  times,  contain  in  their  nectar 
some  element  which  acts  as  a  narcotic,  or,  at  all  events, 
soporific ;  for  we  have  found  both  kinds  of  bees  dull, 
stupid,  and   more  than  half  asleep  on   these  flowers 
after  sundown,  apparently  unable  to  better  themselves 
and  go  home,  emulating  only  too  faithfully  the  unfor- 
tunate human  beings  who  will  lay  themselves  asleep 
by  a  beer-house  door  till  they  are  trundled  off  by  a 
policeman.     We  have  lifted   them  off  the  flowers  of 
both  plants  repeatedly,  and  held  them  in  our  hands 
and  put  them  on  the  flowers  again,  the  insect  having 
no  more  energy  than  just  to  cling  to  the  bed  of  the 
sweet  poison,  and  certainly  not  likely  to  go  home  that 
night,  but  rather  to  stay  there  till  they  fell  off,  chilled 


Bees  not  Lazy.  203 


and  stricken,  only  too  like  many  other  topers  who  are 
apt  to  sing,  "We  won't  go  home  till  morning,"  and, 
alas !  only  too  often  don't  go  home  even  then. 

With  regard  to  the  laziness  of  the  bee,  it  has  to  be 
said  that  in  certain  circumstances  it  may  chance  that 
the  bees  are  in  too  favourable  a  position,  have  too 
much  of  what  they  want  quite  close  at  hand,  to  keep 
them  up  to  the  mark  for  activity  and  industry,  and, 
like  human  beings,  get  corrupt  and  lazy.  But  facts 
attest  that  the  bee  will  work  very  hard.  It  is  on 
record  that  a  famous  bee-master  kept  a  line  of  hives 
on  the  roof  of  his  place  in  the  Strand ;  that  the  bees, 
not  content  with  what  they  could  procure  in  the  Temple 
gardens  and  other  gardens  near  at  hand,  travelled  at 
certain  seasons  miles  daily  to  get  at  the  heath-bells, 
for  the  flavour  of  heath  was  found  in  the  honey 
gathered  from  the  hives  on  the  top  of  the  house  in 
the  Strand ;  and,  besides,  the  bees  were  watched,  and 
there  could  be  no  doubt  about  it.  Were  the  bees  so 
lazy  as  has  been  asserted,  it  is  hardly  possible  that  the 
keeping  of  bees  would  be  so  profitable  as  it  is. 

The  old  straw  or  thatch  hives,  such  as  we  have  put 
for  initial,  were  very  picturesque  and  all  that,  but 
now-a-days  no  bee-master  would  be  content  with  them. 
He  must  have  a  hive  the  top  of  which  is  removable. 
It  is  not  necessary  that  great  expense  should  be  gone 
into  to  procure  this  improved  form  of  hive,  which 
enables  the  bee-master  to  remove  honey  from  the 
"  skep  "  at  certain  times,  since  Mr.  Hunter,  the  well- 
known  writer  on  bees,  has  given  directions  of  such 
simple  character  that  any  one  can  follow  how  to  frame 
very  cheaply,  out  of  stray  boards  and  odds  and  ends 
of  wood,  a  hive  of  the  most  improved  pattern ;  and  his 
pamphlet  can  be  had,  I  think,  for  a  penny. 


204  Bees  and  Bee- Keeping. 

In  America  there  are  at  the  proper  places  immense 
bee-farms,  where  there  are  perhaps  ten  thousand  hives, 
and  where  everything  is  reduced  to  a  science,  and  the 
whole  treatment  of  bees  for  profitable  honey-making 
followed  as  a  study,  and  made  the  one  business  of  life 
for  scores  of  men  and  women. 

It  will  probably  surprise  many  readers  to  hear  it 
suggested  that  the  main  end  of  the  bee's  sting  is  not 
stinging.  This  notion,  however,  has  its  support  in 
several  circumstances ;  one  of  them  is  that  the  work- 
ing bees  alone  have  stings — the  others  are  stingless. 
On  this  point  a  well-known  naturalist  has  recently 
written  to  the  following  effect : — 

"  It  will  be  a  surprise  to  many  to  learn  that,  after  all, 
the  most  important  function  of  the  bee's  sting  is  not 
its  stinging.  I  have  long  been  convinced  that  the  bees 
put  the  finishing  touches  on  their  artistic  cell-work  by 
the  dexterous  use  of  their  stings ;  and  during  this  final 
finishing  stage  of  the  process  of  honey-making,  the  bees 
inject  a  minute  portion  of  formic  acid  into  the  honey. 
This  is  in  reality  the  poison  of  their  sting.  This  formic 
acid  gives  to  the  honey  its  peculiar  flavour,  and  also 
imparts  to  it  its  keeping  qualities.  The  sting  is  really 
an  exquisitely  contrived  little  trowel,  with  which  the 
bee  finishes  off  and  caps  the  cells  when  they  are  filled 
brimful  with  honey.  While  doing  this  the  formic  acid 
passes  from  the  poison  bag,  exudes,  drop  by  drop, 
from  the  point  of  the  sting,  and  the  beautiful  work  is 
finished." 


XII. 
STILL    WATER. 

STILL  water  is  a  very  different  thing  from  stagnant 
water.  We  know  this  by  the  fact  of  the  very  different 
kind  of  growths  that  are  encouraged,  and  the  different 
kinds  of  life  that  they  favour.  After  floods  there  is 
always  a  certain  amount  of  water  left  behind  in  depres- 
sions in  the  lower  parts  of  valley  bottoms,  but  generally 
it  does  not  remain  long;  it  is  absorbed,  and  passes 
away  under  the  action  of  many  agencies.  All  the 
devices  of  scientific  draining  are  averse  to  the  stay  of 
this  water.  Generally  it  is  still  water,  and  any  claim 
such  a  sheet  may  have  to  picturesqueness  is  due  to  the 
character  of  the  surroundings.  If  the  hills  have  wealth 
of  vegetation,  or  are  bare  and  rocky,  but  with  coatings 
here  and  there  of  lichen  or  moss,  how  beautifully  all 
this  is  mirrored  in  the  still  sheet  below !  If  you  sail 
over  it  in  a  boat,  you  can  see  the  green  grass  at  the 
bottom  giving  a  kind  of  tint  to  the  water ;  and  if  there 
are  any  structures  on  it  due  to  the  hand  of  man,  were 
it  only  a  bit  of  paling  or  a  fence-gate,  you  see  the 
upper  part  of  it  still  left  unhidden,  mirrored  in  the 
glassy  mass.  Such  a  bit  does  our  first  little  engraving 
portray. 

In  some  of  our  great  inland  lakes,  where  the  spurs  of 
the  hills,  set  forward  like  an  advancing  foot,  seem  to 

break  the  regularity  of  line,  we   see  the  fine  effects 

205 


206  Still  Water. 


of  shadow  on  still  water.  And  in  some  cases  where 
little  lines  of  low  reefs  of  earth  or  stone  rise  up  to 
break  the  monotony  of  the  expanse,  with  a  fringe  of 
dark  against  the  light,  it  only  adds  to  the  beauty ;  and 
though  it  may  not  be  pleasing  in  itself,  yet  commends 
itself  to  the  eye  from  the  mere  desire  and  craving  for 
variety  and  relief  in  a  level  which  is  inherent  in  the 
mind  of  man. 

What  gives  the  sense  of  weariness  and  oppression 
in  looking  on  a  vast  desert,  or  on  expanses  of  still 
water,  is  due  simply  to  lack  of  relief.  This  is  not  felt 


at  sea,  for  example,  nearly  so  much  as  it  would  be  on 
a  still  lake.  The  ceaseless  movement  of  the  ocean 
is  itself  a  relief;  the  endless  variety  of  the  swelling- 
curves  in  its  lazy  wavelets  and  ripples,  even  on  the 
calmest  day,  is  a  delight  alike  to  eye  and  brain ;  while, 
our  pleasure  on  looking  on  such  a  sheet  of  still  water 
as  is  presented  in  our  next  engraving,  is  derived  from 
our  sense  of  its  contact  with  the  land,  and  these  spurs 
that  run  into  it,  break  it  up,  and  impart  some  sense 
of  variety. 

The  pleasure  which  one  has  in  looking  at  the  lovely 
wooded  Ellen's  Island  in  Loch  Katrine,  is  largely  due 


Lack  of  Shade. 


207 


to  this  same  principle.  It  breaks  up  the  expanse,  and 
relieves  the  monotony  that  would  be  felt  in  looking 
on  an  unrelieved  level  of  still  water.  In  our  third 
little  illustration,  the  reader  will  perhaps  more  fully 


feel  the  force  of  what  has  been  said  when  he  realises 
the  effect  in  this  little  picture  of  the  small  hut-like 
islands,  which  are  dotted  over  the  level  expanse  of 
lake,  each  casting  its  own  shade  behind  it  in  the  strong 
sunlight.  Here  it  is  easily  seen  that  anything  which 


breaks  the  smooth  levelness  of  the  middle  distance  is  a 
benefit,  and  helps  the  picturesque  effect.  If  we  allow 
ourselves  to  analyse  the  impression  to  its  roots,  we 
find  that  the  secret  of  weariness  and  monotony  in  land- 
scape is  invariably  the  lack  of  shade.  Perhaps  some  of 


208  Still  Water. 


our  readers  have  seen  pictures  of  Lake  Coruisk  in  the 
Isle  of  Skye  (a  subject  which,  if  we  remember  aright, 
Mr.  John  MacWhirter  painted  a  good  many  years  ago). 
This  sheet  of  water  would  be  very  gloomy  and  un- 
picturesque  indeed,  were  it  not  for  the  peculiar  form  and 
the  deep  purple  colour  (at  all  events  at  certain  times)  of 
the  flat-faced  and  almost  pyramid-sided  hills  which 
throw  deep  shadows  on  the  darkish  waters  beneath 
them,  and  thus  by  contrast  a  kind  of  inexpressible 
relief  is  given  to  the  scene.  We  know  that  in  the 
East  the  shadow  of  a  great  rock  in  a  weary  land  is 
given  as  the  very  ideal  of  shelter  and  protection.  It 
is  as  beneficial  actually  as  it  is  refreshing  and  welcome 
picturesquely.  In  the  poems  of  the  great  German 
poet,  Heinrich  Heine,  there  is  a  constantly  recurrent 
idea  (which  indeed  crops  up  in  his  prose  as  well)  of 
the  fir  tree  longing  for  the  palm,  and  the  palm  tree 
longing  for  the  fir,  which  in  a  fanciful  or  imaginative 
way  admirably  expresses  this  principle — the  demand 
for  shade,  for  contrast;  and  as  shade  is  only  made 
effective  by  the  presence  of  sun  affecting  objects  stand- 
ing more  or  less  in  the  midst  of  level  spaces,  the  true 
medium  is  the  middle  medium — not  the  palm  alone 
amid  excess  of  sun,  and  single  intense  shadow  in 
centre  of  a  quiver ingly  hot  expanse,  nor  the  fir  amid 
the  frost  and  snow,  where  the  sun,  even  when  it  shines, 
is  so  weak  as  scarcely  to  cast  a  shadow  over  the  snow 
or  frost-whitened  surface.  No ;  but  in  the  something 
between,  which  the  poet  indicates  in  the  longing  of 
each  for  each,  when  he  sings  : — 

"  A  fir  tree  stands  all  lonely 

In  the  north,  on  a  cold  grey  height  ; 
He  slumbers,  as  round  him  ice  and  snow 
Weave  a  mantle  of  spotless  white. 


Fir  and  Palm.  209 

He  dreams  of  a  palm-tree  towering 

Afar  in  the  eastern  land, 
Alone,  and  silently  dreaming 

'Mid  rocks  and  burning  sand.* 

Thus,  while  the  Hebrew  Psalmist  in  one  place 
promises  that  the  Lord  shall  lead  His  chosen  "  by 
the  still  waters/'  his  companion  yet  more  powerfully 
indicates  the  shelter,  and  to  them  the  soft  benignance 
of  their  God,  by  likening  His  tender  and  solicitous 
kindness  to  the  shadow  of  a  great  rock  in  a  weary 
land — an  idea  which  is  made  fine  use  of  in  that 
grandest  hymn  of  Luther,  "  Ein  feste  Burg  ist  unser 
Gott."  Art,  in  interpreting  for  us  the  benignity  of 
nature  as  it  affects  our  spirits,  says  almost  the  same. 
In  its  selection — its  necessary  selection — of  elements 
that  present  a  unity  to  the  mind  of  the  observer,  it 
must  carefully  balance  the  shadows  and  the  lights,  the 
blacks  and  the  whites,  the  sun  and  the  shade ;  so  that, 
though  it  may  be  sweet  there  also  to  walk  by  the 
"  still  waters,"  yet  sweeter  at  once  in  intenser  pains 
and  in  intenser  pleasures,  is  it  to  rest  under  "the 
shadow  of  a  great  rock  in  a  weary  land." 

*  This  is  from  Heine — a  free  translation — and  here  is  the  original  : — 

"  Ein  Fichtenbaum  steht  einsam, 

Im  Norden  auf  kahler  Hoh, 
Ihn  schlafert  mit  weisser  Decke 

Umhiillen  ihn  Eis  und  Schnee. 
Er  traumt  von  einer  Palme 

Die  fern  im  Morgenland, 
Einsam  und  schweigend  trauert 

Auf  brennender  Felsenwand." 


XIII. 
A  SCOTTISH  TROUT  STREAM. 


HAT  a  delightful  thing 
it  is  to  wander,  as  we 
have  often  done,  alike 
in  Perthshire  and  In- 
verness, on  Deeside 
and  Tweedside,  and 
in  Rachan  Valley, 
about  the  hills  that  line  Loch 
Long,  by  the  borders  of  Gare- 
loch  and  Roseneath  Hill,  and 
far  up  in  the  famed  Glenesk, 
and  follow  the  course  of  a  tiny 
stream  leaping  down  the  hill  side, 
now  heady  and  impetuous,  now  dropping  into  little 
pools  or  basins,  boulder-walled,  all  the  waterside 
waving  with  ferns  and  wild  flowers,  and  bright  with 
mosses,  not  a  nook  but  has  its  greenery,  spray  re- 
freshed, hawthorns,  the  mossy  birches,  and  firs  and 
mountain  ashes  and  elders,  hanging  on  the  sides  of 
the  little  chasm,  nodding  to  each  other,  their  branches 
in  many  places  meeting  overhead;  and  everywhere 
the  songs  of  birds  making  chord  with  the  sweet 
tinklings  and  lullabies  of  that  little  thread  of  water; 
wild  pigeons,  mountain-pipits,  and  water-ousels  com- 
ing to  the  pools  to  drink.  This  last  is  truly  a  pretty 


A  Delightful  Afternoon.  2 1 1 

bird,  white-breasted,  short-tailed,  and  with  a  happy 
faculty  for  mingling  business  and  pleasure,  or  so  it 
seems  to  me.  He  comes  here  to  drink  perhaps,  but 
he  does  more  before  he  leaves.  He  will  perch  on  a 
stone  and  sit  quite  still  for  a  while  ;  then  he  will  dive, 
and,  speedily  coming  up  again,  will  return  to  the  stone 
and  perhaps  drop  a  few  notes  of  very  sweet  and  cheer- 
ful music,  all  his  own,  and  liquid  as  the  streams  he 
haunts.  There  is  a  kind  of  legend  that  he  can  walk 
in  water  at  the  bottom,  seeking  his  food,  but  I  have  not 
been  fortunate  enough  to  observe  it  so  long  under 
water  as  to  suggest  this,  which,  however,  I  can  well 
believe.  The  Duke  of  Argyll  has  told  how  the  young 
dippers  will  take  to  the  water  on  being  frightened,  and 
will  at  once  show  the  same  diving  power  as  their  elders. 
"The  stream  has  innumerable  lesser  tributaries,  too — 
tiny  rain-courses,  or  little  more,  some  of  them,  pouring 
themselves  through  rough  rocky  channels,  to  join  and 
to  enlarge  the  streamlet  as  it  goes,  and  making  all  the 
music  they  may  ere  they  pass  and  are  lost. 

We  remember  one  delightful  afternoon  spent  near  to 
where  a  little  stream  of  this  kind  bickers  and  sings  on 
its  way  to  join  the  Tummel — most  delightful  and  most 
varied  of  streams,  sweetest  mixture  of  idyllic  and  of 
cunningly  dangerous  among  all  the  rivers  that  we 
know.  "  Tummel  Falls  indeed  are  tricksy,  Tummel 
Falls  are  rare,"  but  do  not  attempt,  as  some  have  done, 
to  slide-,  and  glide,  and  get  behind  that  white  curtain, 
half  of  cloudy  mist,  and  half  of  more  prosaic  element, 
as  you  may  regret  it.  You  may  slip,  plunge,  and 
be  carried  away ;  or,  if  not  quite  that,  receive  such 
a  douche  that  you  are  not  likely  to  forget  it,  or  ever 
after  fail  to  speak  with  due  respect,  not  to  say  enthu- 
siasm, of  bonnie  Tummel. 


212 


A  Scottish   Trout  Stream. 


But  Scottish  streams  show  a  different  character  in 
many  cases.  Here  is  a  bit  that  might  pass  for  a 
brawling  shallow  in  the  Tweed,  or  in  the  North  Esk, 
or  in  the  Spey,  or  in  the  Ness,  or  the  Ithen.  How 
sweetly  refreshing  it  is  to  look  on  such  a  bit  as  this ! 
The  brown  water  sails  along  with  a  kind  of  smooth 
even  demeanour,  till  it  meets  with  opposition  from  the 
big  boulders,  green  and  slippery,  and  then  it  "  puts  up  its 


back,"to  use  a  colloquialism,  and,  since  it  cannot  overleap 
the  obstacle,  it  will  dash  and  throw  itself  in  foam  against 
it,  so  protesting.  But  very  different  it  is  when  the  river 
is  in  spate.  Then  the  water  overtops  the  boulders,  and 
goes  dashing  along  with  defiance  in  its  face.  No  ob- 
stacle can  resist  it  then.  Majesty  crowns  the  "  drumlie 
flood,"  and  all  goes  down  before  it.  Siller  Tweed,  broad- 
breasted  Spey,  soft  Southesk,  and  leaping  Northesk, 
with  its  Kelpie's  pools,  and  lovely  Dee,  and  sweet  Tay 


Floods.  2 1 3 


gleaming,  are  all  alike  then,  and  have  no  shallows;  a  dull 
uniformity  of  dark  umber  depths  then  prevails,  and  wipes 
out  the  more  attractive  marks ;  all  are  robbed  of  their 
more  distinguishing  beauties  and  characteristic  traits. 

Nevertheless  some  of  our  painters  have  painted 
splended  pictures  of  rivers  in  spate  when  the  greeny 
ordered  beauty  of  the  bank  or  margin  was  lost  in 
a  roaring  brown  sea,  and  when  all  resources  of 
the  pencil  had  to  be  applied  to  render  the  whirl  and 
wild  gurgling  dash  of  brown  water,  leaping,  passing 
here  and  there  into  foam-covered  swirling  eddies. 
One  picture  we  remember  of  Mr.  Peter  Graham, 
masterly  in  the  general  effect  as  in  details,  and  another, 
if  we  remember  rightly,  from  the  easel  of  Mr.  J.  R. 
Macdonald,  R.S.A.,  and  still  another  from  that  of 
Mr.  W.  Mactaggart,  R.S.A. 

And  floods  have  left  their  mark  in .  literature  too. 
The  great  flood  on  the  Spey,  which  wrecked  a  valley, 
and  was  almost  as  memorable  for  wonderful  and  rom- 
antic escapes  as  for  the  lives  lost,  has  received 
worthy  commemoration.  Few  that  have  read  it  will 
ever  forget  Sir  Thomas  Dick  Lander's  thrilling  and 
faithful  pictures,  or  the  yet  more  wonderful  effects 
which  Dr.  George  Macdonald  gains  from  his  highly 
poetical  and  dramatic  presentation  of  the  phenomena 
in  his  novel  of  "  Sir  Gibbie,"  which  would  have  a 
permanent  value  were  it  for  this  feature  alone. 

It  is  this  great  change,  sometimes  very  sudden, 
which  was  in  the  mind  of  the  writer  of  that  famous 
song,  "The  Flowers  of  the  Forest,"  when  this  fine 
verse  was  penned — 

"  I've  seen  the  morning  with  gold  the  hills  adorning, 
And  the  red  storm  roaring  before  the  parting  day  ; 
I've  seen  Tweed's  siller  streams,  glistening  on  the  sunny  beams, 
Grow  drumlie  and  dark  as  they  rolled  on  their  way." 


214 


A   Scottish   Trout  Stream. 


Yes,  truly,  "drumlie  and  dark,"  as  we  have  said; 
and  what  more  finely  expressive  or  symbolic  of  the 
sudden  change,  sudden  as  the  flash  of  shining  swords 
in  dewy  light,  under  which  the  flowers  o'  the  forest 
are  a'  wede  away ! 

But  such  a  storm,  with  the  results  that  naturally 
follow,  brings  the  angler's  opportunity.  Most  fre- 
quently it  is  just  after  such  a  spate  as  this  has 


somewhat  subsided,  when  the  waters  lessen,  but  are 
not  yet  wholly  clear,  that  the  fisherman  finds  his  harvest. 
The  big  fish  are  all  astir  then,  eager  to  feed,  and  the 
angler  not  seldom  exults  in  the  heavy  "take." 

Then  even  small  streams  are  swollen  to  rivers,  and 
the  fall,  which  after  a  drought  dwindles  and  dwindles 
to  little  more  than  a  white  thread,  becomes  once  again 
a  waterfall — voice  of  hungry,  hissing,  rushing  torrent, 
which  carries  down  with  it  no  end  of  driftwood, 


Tweed. 


217 


drowned  sheep,  and  hay  or  corn  that  may  have  lain 
on  the  flooded  lands  near  to  it  far,  far  up  above. 

The  Tweed  is  undoubtedly  the  queen  of  Scottish 
rivers,  not  alone  because  of  its  length  and  the  variety 
of  the  scenery  it  passes  through,  and  its  clearer  pebbly 
strand  than  any  other  Scottish  river  enjoys,  or  the 
number  and  varied  character  of  the  tributaries  it  re- 
ceives, but  because  of  its  associations — the  aromas  of 


SPROUSTON   DUB. 

song  and  ballad  that  linger  about  it,  the  histories  of 
hero* 'and  of  poet  that  are  enlinked  with  it,  the  human 
spell  that  is  upon  it  adding  to  it,  and  seeming  to  in- 
terpret its  varied  beauty.  True  it  is,  as  the  poet 
sings— 

"  Thy  lot  it  is,  fair  stream,  to  flow  amid 
A  varied  vale  :  not  mountain  height  alone, 
Nor  mere  outspreading  flat  is  dully  thine, 


218  A   Scottish   Trout  Stream. 

But  wavy  lines  of  hills,  high,  massive,  broad, 

That  rise  and  fall,  and  flowing  softly  fine 

In  haughs  of  grassy  sward,  a  deep-hued  green."  * 

And  truly  what  a  contrast  there  is  between  the 
brawling  foaming  torrent  below  Yair  and  the  sunny 
repose  of  such  sheets  as  we  give  of  Hare  Craig  Pool, 
below  Dryburgh,  and  the  famous  Sprouston  Dub, 
beloved  of  anglers !  But  it  is  true  also  that  there  is  a 
varied  music  of  human  hearts,  of  dim-hued  memories, 
and  high  ambitions  foiled  and  overthrown,  and  pas- 
sions and  disappointed  hopes  that  keep  time  to  its  music 
as  it  flows  for  ever,  inalienable,  beautiful,  glad  and 
undying : — 

"  Great  nature  mocks  us  if  the  heart  can  take 
No  tribute  of  high  memory  to  invest 
Her  beauty  with  the  sense  of  love  and  good." 

In  some  respects  the  tributaries  of  such  a  river  as 
the  Tweed  will  be  found  as  interesting,  or  even  more 
interesting,  than  the  river  itself.  Some  of  them  have 
been  finely  celebrated  in  Professor  Veitch's  poem, 
"The  Tweed."  Not  to  speak  of  the  Lyne  and  the 
Manor,  which  flow  into  it  from  north  and  south  above 
Peebles ;  the  latter,  with  its  rushing  water,  leaping, 
laughing,  and  rolling  through  steep  and  lofty  moun- 
tains, and  high  up  in  whose  solitary  valley  abode  David 
Ritchie,  the  original  of  Scott's  "Black  Dwarf;"  or  of 
the  Leithen,  lower  down,  which,  after  sweeping  through 
a  greeny  vale,  throws  its  ample  stream  into  the  more 
level  region  of  the  river,  where  the  gently  rising  banks 
are  richly  wooded,  only  in  the  pass  beyond  Yair  to 
narrow  and  rush  on,  foaming,  impetuous,  as  Sir  Walter 
Scott  has  painted  it : — 

*  "  The  Tweed  and  other  Poems,"  by  Professor  John  Veitch,  LL.D. 


The  Eden.  219 


"  From  Yair,  which  hills  so  closely  bind, 
Scarce  can  the  Tweed  his  passage  find, 
Though  much  he  fret  and  chafe  and  toil, 
Till  all  his  eddying  currents  boil." 

or  of  the  famous  Ettrick,  oft-besung,  or  the  romance- 
shaded  dreamy  Yarrow;  or  of  long-flowing,  legend- 
laden  Teviot ;  or  of  Gala  Water — "  Draw,  braw  lads  on 
Gala  Water ; "  or  of  the  ominously  named  Whiteadder 
and  Blackadder,  yet  lower  down.  After  all  these 
there  are  still  three  tributaries  of  the  Tweed,  which, 
on  their  separate  and  contrasted  accounts,  may  claim 
from  us  a  little  more  attention.  These  are  the  Eden, 
and  the  Till,  and  the  Quair.  The  former  is  in  places 
a  very  narrow  stream,  gathering  into  bouldery- spread 
pools,  with  steep  banks  on  either  side,  so  steep  indeed 
that  not  seldom  the  fisher  must  wade  either  up  or 
down ;  and  it  has  very  considerable  falls  here  and 
there,  the  most  notable  of  which  is  the  Newton  Don  Fall 
(often  called  Stitchell  Linn),  where  the  water  gathers 
into  a  comparatively  wide  basin,  for  the  volume  of  the 
stream  above,  and  throws  itself  foaming,  and  divided,  as 
it  were,  into  different  streams,  down  a  series  of  stairlike 
shelves,  parted  from  each  other  again  to  form  a  wide 
basin  below,  where  the  water,  after  slowly  eddying 
round,  seems  to  pause  restfully,  recovering  from  the 
effects  of  its  turmoil  before  proceeding  on  again.  This 
fall  is,  in  every  respect,  beautiful  and  striking,  being 
something  over  sixty  feet  in  height.  This  is  a  height 
far  beyond  the  power  of  salmon  to  ascend;  and  it 
forms  a  barrier  also  to  the  passing  and  repassing  of 
some  kinds  of  trout,  and  hence  the  character  of  the 
trout  above  differs  in  several  points  from  those  found 
below. 

Though  sixty  feet  is  far  beyond  the  power  of  salmon 


220  A  Scottish   Trout  Stream. 


to  ascend,  it  is  very  wonderful  the  heights  that  they  will 
leap.  I  have  stood  by  the  side  of  a  northern  stream 
at  the  right  season,  close  by  what  are  called  "the  salmon 
loups,"  where  the  falls  are  certainly  more  than  ten  feet 
in  height,  and  have  seen  the  salmon  in  crowds  leaping 
up,  their  bodies  seen  for  several  seconds  clear  out  of 
the  water — glancing,  silvery  purple,  luminous,  beauti- 


STITCHELL   LINN. 

ful.  Most  of  them,  of  course,  fell  back  to  try  again, 
but  every  now  and  then  one  would  succeed  and  pass 
upward. 

It  is  near  to  such  spots  as  this  that  the  otter  delights 
to  make  his  home,  to  prey  on  the  larger  fishes.  The 
general  idea  is  that  he  is  a  very  particular  feeder, 
eating  only  the  more  delicate  portions  for  the  most 
part,  and  leaving  the  bulk  of  the  fish  on  the  banks, 
to  lead  skilful  eyes  to  know  of  his  whereabouts.  The 


Otters.  221 


facility  with  which  otters  can  be  tamed  and  trained 
and  domesticated  has  led  to  no  end  of  stories  of  otters 
becoming  the  cunning  and  helpful  mates  of  poachers,; 
and  it  is  said  that  in  old  days  not  seldom  the  residents 
near  a  stream  where  an  otter  worked  winked  at  his 
depredations,  and  hid  the  fact  of  his  existence,  because 
they  knew  where  they  could  always  find  a  good  meal 
by  going  and  taking  the  portions  of  the  salmon  which 
he  had  rejected  and  left  on  the  banks. 


SALMON   LOUPS. 


Later  reports — the  result  of  what  claims  to  be  closer 
observation— go  to  give  the  poor  otter  a  somewhat 
better  character.  A  writer  in  the  Fishing  Gazette  in 
the.-beginning  of  the  year  (1893)  stood  up  for  him, 
declaring  that  he  was  more  the  angler's  friend  than 
many  would  credit.  "  Whilst  we  write,"  he  says,  "we 
have  in  our  mind  a  little  river  in  our  own  neighbour- 
hood, than  which  for  its  size  there  is  not  a  better  in 
the  kingdom  as  a  trout  stream;  and  yet  this  river, 
figuratively  speaking,  actually  swarms  with  otters.  .  .  , 


222  A  Scottish   Trout  Stream. 

Fish  forms  only  a  part  of  the  otter's  daily  meals.  The 
young  of  water-hens,  coots,  and  other  birds  breeding 
by  the  water-side,  and  at  times  rabbits,  and  even  large 
worms,  are  common  changes  in  an  otter's  diet ;  while 
frogs,  eels,  and  the  crustaceous  crayfish  are  probably 
thought  as  great  a  dainty  as  the  brightest  of  silvery 
salmon.  These  facts  are  proved  by  an  examination  of 
the  animal's  '  foil,'  while  we  have  over  and  over  again 
had  demonstration  of  the  avidity  with  which  vegetable 
food  is  consumed."  And  the  theory  of  this  writer  is 
that  the  otter  chiefly  preys  on  weak  or  diseased  fish, 
unable  to  evade  his  pursuit,  as  healthier  fish  almost 
invariably  do,  and  that  he  is  thus  really  a  scavenger  of 
the  streams.  We  honestly  confess  to  a  sneaking  re- 
gard for  the  otter,  because  he  has  been  so  ruthlessly 
persecuted  and  destroyed,  and  has  shown  so  much 
bravery  and  persistence ;  and  if  the  facts  are  as  given 
above,  then  the  habits  and  character  of  the  otter  should 
plead  for  him  and  prevent  the  wanton  and  cruel  de- 
struction of  this  beautiful  and  clever  animal  which  has 
so  long  and  ruthlessly  been  carried  on.  But  certainly 
the  "  Son  of  the  Marshes  "  is  not  wholly  at  one  with 
this  idea,  for  he  says  the  otter  eats  only  the  belly  and 
shoulders  of  pike,  and  leaves  good  bits  of  eel  on  the 
banks.  "  Less  refined  creatures,"  he  adds,  "  can  dine 
on  what  he  leaves  on  the  banks."  . 

Nowadays,  in  many  streams,  the  proprietors  or  con- 
servators of  the  water,  to  aid  the  fish  in  their  struggles 
to  ascend  these  falls  or  "loups"  to  the  most  favoured 
spawning  grounds,  have  erected  what  are  called  salmon 
ladders  or  steps — a  kind  of  artificial  aid,  which,  if  we 
mistake  not,  the  late  Frank  Buckland  did  much  to  im- 
prove and  to  commend.  In  old  days,  when  the  legis- 
lature with  regard  to  protection  of  fish,  and  a  "  close 


Leistering.  223 


time"  for  them,  was  not  so  strict  as  it  now  is,  and 
when  men  were  more  regardless  of  law,  and  salmon 
poaching  was  largely  practised,  it  was  common  for  the 
poachers  to  do  a  good  stroke  at  the  pools  at  the  foot  of 
these  falls.  A  number  of  men  went  out  at  night  with 
torches  in  their  hands,  and  others  with  leisters  or  three 
and  four  pronged  fork-like  implements,  with  which  on 
seeing  a  fish  near  them,  they  settled  it  by  driving  the 
leister  into  it,  fixing  it  to  the  bottom  and  then  seizing 
it — a  most  cruel  and  wasteful  process,  with  which  the 
law  now  deals  very  severely,  for  the  fish  thus  killed 
were  of  course  on  their  way  up  to  spawn,  and  in 
course  of  time  the  rivers  by  this  system  were  greatly 
depopulated. 

On  this  point  Sir  Thomas  Dick  Lauder  well  says — 
"  Like  many  other  things  that  are  very  nefarious  in 
practice,  there  is  much  in  the  most  destructive  of  prac- 
tices that  is  productive  of  romantic  and  picturesque 
effect — the  darkness  of  the  night,  the  blaze  of  torches 
upon  the  water,  the  flash  of  the  foam  from  the  bare 
limbs  of  the  men  who  are  wading  through  the  shallows, 
with  their  long  poles  and  many  pointed  and  barbed 
iron  heads,  or  glancing  from  the  prow  of  the  boat, 
moving  slowly  over  the  deeper  water,  with  its  strange 
unearthly  figures  in  it."  * 

The  Till  beats  the  Eden  both  for  depth  and  for 
rapidity.  Scott  calls  it  "  the  sullen  Till,"  but  it  can 
rush  .and  sparkle  too.  It  is  not  safe  for  the  fisherman 
to  wade  it.  People  attempting  to  cross  it  even  at  what 
seemed  'the  shallower  parts  have  had  to  retrace  their 
steps. 

"  Tweed  said  to  Till, 
'  What  gars  ye  rin  sae  still  ?' 

*  "  Scottish  Rivers,"  p.  45. 


224 


A  Scottish   Trout  Stream. 


Till  said  to  Tweed, 
'  Though  ye  rin  wi'  speed, 
And  I  rin  slaw, 

.  Sae  still  as  ye  rin  and  fast  as  ye  gae, 
Yet  where  ye  drown  ae  man 
I  drown  twae.'" 

The  vale  of  the  Till,  here  rocky  and  wild,  there 
ailing  into  gentler  pools  and  forming  little  lakes,  such 
2S  is  represented  in  this  cut  by  Twisel  Mill,  running 


TWISEL   MILL. 

up  into  the  English  Northumberland,  has  its  own 
share  of  historical  interest  as  well  as  its  own  individual 
character.  The  Bridge  of  Twisel  (not  far  from  Twisel 
Mill),  afforded  great  aid  to  the  army  of  Lord  Surrey. 
It  was  by  it  that  the  English  were  enabled  to  meet  the 
Scottish  army  at  Flodden — a  movement  for  ever  memor- 
able in  history,  and  splendidly  celebrated  by  Sir  Walter 
Scott  in  verses  that  breathe  and  burn : — 


The  Qutiir.  225 


"  From  Flodden  ridge 

The  Scots  beheld  the  English  host 

Leave  Barmore-wood,  their  evening  post, 

And  heedful  watch'd  them  as  they  cross'd 
The  Till  by  Twisel  Bridge. 

High  sight  it  is,  and  haughty,  while 

They  dive  into  the  deep  defile  ; 

Beneath  the  cavern'd  cliff  they  fall, 

Beneath  the  castle's  airy  wall. 
By  rock,  by  oak,  by  hawthorn-tree, 

Troop  after  troop  are  disappearing  ; 

Troop  after  troop  their  banners  rearing, 
Upon  the  eastern  bank  you  see. 
Still  pouring  down  the  rocky  den, 

Where  flows  the  sullen  Till, 
And  rising  from  the  dim-wood  glen, 
Standards  on  standards,  men  on  men, 

In  slow  succession  still, 
And,  sweeping  o'er  the  Gothic  arch, 
And  pressing  on,  in  ceaseless  march, 

To  gain  the  opposing  hill. 
That  morn,  to  many  a  trumpet  clang, 
Twisel  !  thy  rock's  deep  echo  rang  ; 
And  many  a  chief  of  birth  and  rank, 
Saint  Helen  !  at  thy  fountain  drank. 
Thy  hawthorn  glade,  which  now  we  see 
In  spring-tide  bloom  so  lavishly, 
Had  then  from  many  an  axe  its  doom, 
To  give  the  marching  columns  room." 

As  to  Quair,  it  is  surrounded  by  associations  more 
gently  sad  and  sweet — touching,  pathetic,  and  yet 
pleasing.  It  is  the  symbol  of  love  and  wooing  and 
regretful  memories  of  pure  passion  defeated  or  ele- 
vated through  disappointment  and  ill.  Professor  Veitch 
has  well  apostrophised  it : — 

Come,  gentle  Quair,  thou  dear  loved  stream  of  song  1 
Long  consecrate  to  passion's  bootless  prayer ; 
By  thee  Love's  hope  has  dawned  and  dwined  and  died, 
From  'mid  the  spring,  when  tender  birken  boughs 

P 


226  A   Scottish   Trout  Stream. 

Are  growing  green,  and  all  the  lover's  heart 
Throbs  with  upbraiding  full  and  wild  unrest 
That  nature  is  so  kind,  and  fate  so  hard.* 

And  Principal  Shairp  in  his  beautiful  ballad  of  the 
"  Bush  aboon  Traquair/'  more  than  most,  has  thrown 
a  new  light  across  the  very  spirit  of  the  old  Border 
ballad  :— 

"  What  saw  ye  there, 

At  the  Bush  aboon  Traquair  ? 
And  what  heard  ye  there  that  was  worth  your  heed  ? 

I  heard  the  cushies  croon 

Thro'  the  gowden  afternoon, 
And  the  Quair  burn  singin'  doon  to  the  Vale  o'  the  Tweed. 


And  birks,  saw  I  three  or  four, 

Wi'  grey  moss,  bearded  ower, 
The  last  that  are  left  o'  the  birkenshaw, 

Whar  mony  a  simmer  e'en, 

Fond  lovers  did  convene 
Thae  bonny,  bonny  gloamin's  that  are  far  a\\  a;. 


They  were  best  beyond  compare, 

When  they  held  their  trystin'  there 
Amang  the  greenest  hills  shone  on  by  the  sun  ; 

And  there  they  wan  a  rest, 

The  lounest  and  the  best, 
I  Traquair  Kirkyard  when  a'  was  dune. 

Now  the  birks  to  dust  may  rot, 

Names  o'  lovers  be  forgot, 
Nae  lads  and  lasses  there  ony  mair  convene  ; 

But  the  blithe  lilt  o'  yon  air 

Keeps  the  Bush  aboon  Traquair, 
And  the  love  that  ance  was  there,  aye  fresh  and  green. 

*   "  The  Tweed  "  and  other  poems. 


Dry  burgh  Abbey. 


227 


And  then  for  old  keeps  and  peel  towers,  and  famous 
ruins,  and  still  more  famous  houses  not  ruins,  on  its 
borders,  what  river  can  equal  Tweed  ?  There  is 
Melrose  Abbey — the  prince  of  them  all ;  there  is 
Dryburgh  Abbey,  with  its  'celebrated  burial-place, 


DKYBURGH    ABBEY. 


and  Norham  Castle  lower  down,  on  Northumberland 
side,  overhanging  the  steep,  a  fortress  that  figured 
largely  in  stories  of  battles  and  sieges,*  and  makes 

*  In  Mr.  Hubert  E.  H.  Jerningham's  interesting  volume,  published 
by  Wm.    Patterson  of  Edinburgh,   will   be  found  the  fullest  details 


228 


A   Scottish   Tro^lt  Stream. 


us  think  of  Tweed  as  the  poet  thought  of  it  when  he 
wrote : — 

"  The  symbol  thou,  O  Tweed,  of  those  two  lands, 
The  South  and  North,  that  long  in  conflict  strove, 
And  from  their  striving  found  a  greater  life." 


NORHAM   CASTLE. 

about  Norham  Caslle.  He  gives  as  frontispiece  a  drawing  of  Norham 
as  it  was  in  the  time  of  Pudsey  (1151),  a  stately  pile  with  strong  en- 
circling wall,  running  so  low  on  the  range  of  the  mound  that  the  whole 
structure  could  be  clearly  seen  from  a  distance ;  also  a  sketch  of  the 
castle  in  1680,  when  the  ruinous  process  had  so  far  proceeded  that  all 
the  small  square  turrets  had  disappeared.  All  that  now  remains  of  the 
historical  pile  is  presented  in  our  engraving. 


Nor  ham.  229 


Sir  Walter  Scott,  in  the  opening  of  "  Marmion," 
has  this  fine  description  of  Norham  : — 

"  Day  set  on  Norham's  castled  steep, 
And  Tweed's  fair  river,  broad  and  deep, 

And  Cheviot's  mountains  lone  : 
The  battled  towers,  the  donjon  keep, 
The  loophole  grates,  where  captives  weep, 
The  flanking  walls  that  round  it  sweep, 

In  yellow  lustre  shone. 
The  warriors  on  the  turrets  high, 
Moving  athwart  the  evening  sky, 

Seem'd  forms  of  giant  height : 
Their  armour,  as  it  caught  the  rays, 
Flash'd  back  again  the  western  blaze, 

In  lines  of  dazzling  light." 

From  the  ramparts  of  nodding  Neidpath  Castle,  the 
dying  girl  bent  down  to  hail  the  banished  lover, 
recalled,  alas !  too  late,  by  a  sorrowing  father.  She 
met  the  unrecognising  glance  raised  to  her  changed 
face,  and  stricken  by  the  pang  of  pain,  fell  back  dead, 
while  the  lover  was  hurrying  up  the  stair  to  greet  her. 
Elibank  Tower,  the  rude  home  of  Muckle-mou'ed  Meg, 
sung  often  in  ballad,  and  idealised  by  Browning,  over- 
looks the  Tweed,  the  Siller  Tweed,  which  Scott  pined 
for  by  "  the  yellow  Tiber  and  the  green,  becastled 
Rhine." 

And  then  there  is  Abbotsford,  sacred  to  the  memory 
of  the  Magician  of  the  North,  and  Ashestiel,  his  first 
love 'on  the  classic  stream  (of  which  we  speak  else- 
where), and  Yair,  the  home  of  a  branch  of  the  power- 
ful Pringles,  and  many  another  classic  house  and 
home,  each  with  its  own  history,  its  own  traditions,  its 
legends  and  song  lore. 

A  very  different  aspect  does  the  Scottish  river  pre- 
sent, when  it  glides  down  into  something  of  a  lake-like 


230  A   Scottish   Trout  Stream. 

aspect,  as  it  steals  round  its  banks,  fir-fringed/  with 
many  a  bend  and  circuit,  and  staying  its  waters,  as 
though  it  were  loath  to  leave  behind  it  such  a  paradise. 
It  seems  like  a  lover  looking  back  at  a  loved  one, 
lingering  and  gazing  still  and  beckoning  farewell. 
The  more  surely  is  this  the  case  when  the  full  moon 
looks  down' and  makes  a  milder  softer  daylight,  leaving 
his  trace  upon  the  water  in  many  a  rippling  curving 


bend — faint  images  and  prophecies  of  himself,  when 
he  shall  become  but  a  crescent  in  the  sky  once 
more.  Such  a  scene  as  this  might  indeed  tempt  one 
to  exclaim — 

"  Beautiful  moon,  so  soft,  so  bright, 
Walking  the  pathways  by  the  night. 

Over  the  clouds  like  a  ship  you  leap, 
Leaving  a  track  of  pearl  to  keep 


Loch  Hourn. 


A  halo,  and  tell  you  have  passed  that  way, 
In  spite  of  the  clouds  that  eclipse  your  ray. 

Beautiful  moon,  so  soft,  so  bright, 

Like  a  shepherd  watching  his  flocks  by  night, 

That  wander  away  and  wander  far, 

For  your  flock  is  planet  and  trembling  star. 

And  they  seek  to  serve  you  in  many  a  guise, 
And  dote  most  fondly  in  your  fair  eyes  ; 
And  circle  you  round  in  river  and  lake, 
With  a  meek  obeisance  no  winds  can  break. 

If  it  blows  too  roughly,  you  only  smile, 
The  better  your  followers  to  beguile  ; 
And  you  lift  a  look  of  sublime  repose 
When  the  calm  of  a  tempest  before  it  goes. 

The  Lightning  shakes  out  its  locks  in  vain  ; 
You  walk  serenely  o'er  cloudy  plain  ; 
And  you  look  so  fair  through  the  fir  trees  fine, 
We  wonder  not  men  held  you  once  divine." 

All  about  these  Scottish  streams  are  little  bits  of 
wild  rocky  barriers,  as  it  were,  where  the  water  is 
made  to  leap  and  toss  and  curvet,  and  then  fall  over 
green  slippery  boulders  into  tiny  pools  beyond,  where 
the  fish — and  bigger  fish  than  you  would  believe — are 
often  found  to  lie,  waiting  for  the  tit-bits  brought  down 
by  the  stream,  or  lying  half  hid  watching  for  their 
favourite  flies  which  often  affect  these  stiller  pools. 
Here  is  one  of  these  corners,  such  as  is  to  be  found 
on  .many  a  northern  stream. 

And  often  these  streams  pour  themselves  into  lakes 
which' lie  surrounded  by  their  mountains,  open  ever  to 
sun,  moon,  and  stars.  A  typical  lake  in  this  respect  is 
Loch  Hourn,  with  its  rocky  piers  and  buttresses  and 
shelving  hills.  What  soft,  tender,  dewy  lines  of  light 
lie  along  such  a  sheet  in  the  sunrise  as  we  oft  have 


232 


A  Scottish   Trout  Stream. 


seen  them,  and  what  golden   glories  flit  across  it  in 
the  sunset,  while  the  deepening  shadows  of  the  hills, 


purple  below,  their  summits  touched  with  fire,  repro- 
duce themselves  in  these  still  depths.  Some  of  the 
most  magnificent  effects  of  light  and  shade  we  have 


ever  seen  were  beheld  on  some  of  these  Scottish  lakes, 
when,  too,  the  mists  were  creeping  round  the  moun- 
tains, and  the  wind  began  to  blow  its  trumpets,  an 


Cloud  and  Mist.  235 

the  echoes  of  further  hills  to  make  regular  reply,  and 
over  the  eastern  sky  hung  gloomy,  bastion-like  fringes 
of  rain,  while  yet  trembling  bars  of  sunset  glory 
lingered  in  the  west,  pulsating  with  a  redder,  bloodier 
gleam,  suddenly  to  fade  and  pale  and  pass,  and  leave 
behind  a  deeper  darkness,  lit  up  only  by  the  lightning- 
flash,  and  then  round  all  the  peaks  and  scars  "  rattled 
the  live  thunder."  But  it  would  need  the  pen  of  a 
Scott  to  do  anything  like  justice  to  such  scenes  and 
such  sounds. 

But  one  thing  may  be  said,  unclouded  clearness  of 
sun  and  still  air  burdened  with  dry  heat  are  not  the 
mediums  through  which  to  behold  at  their  best  the 
beauties  of  Scottish,  and  more  particularly  of  Highland 
scenery :  the  mists  that  creep  at  earlier  morning  or  in 
storm,  like  mighty  serpents,  round  the  bases  of  the 
mountains,  and  rise  up  and  up  till  the  peak  alone  is 
hidden,  mist-capped,  and  then  gradually  pass,  to  leave, 
as  it  were,  gems  twinkling  about  it ;  so  that  the 
looker-on  will  sometimes  wonder  whether  morning 
stars  do  not  linger  still  near  the  glancing  summits  of 
some  of  our  rocky  bens.  It  is  all  very  well  to  com- 
plain of  cloud  and  mist,  of  the  dull,  low-hanging  curtains 
of  rain,  and  the  uncomfortable,  penetrating,  drizzling 
falls  of  wet ;  these  supply  the  elements  that  give  colour, 
life,  and  grandeur  to  our  Scottish  hills  and  lakes — 
sunny,  tearful,  laughing,  frowning,  clear  or  misty,  sun- 
lit or  darkly  shadowed  by  sudden  turns.  Without 
our  clouds  and  mists  and  rains  we  should  compare 
but  poorly  with  Southern  France,  with  Italy,  or  with 
the  Austrian  Tyrol. 

Has  not  De  Quincey  essayed  to  prove  indeed  that 
our  literature — our  higher  imaginative  literature — owes 
much  to  mist  and  cloud,  to  the  effects  of  sun  and  rain 


236  A   Scottish   Trout  Stream. 


and  sullen  skies  with  leaden  downlook  ?  He  compares, 
in  this  respect,  the  genius  of  Milton  with  that  of  Dante. 
The  latter  he  holds  is  the  genius  of  exact,  of  powerful 
description — every  object  he  describes  could  be  mea- 
sured— you  could  draw  it  faithfully  to  scale  if  you  had 
but  canvas  enough  ;  he  magnifies,  but  with  definiteness 
still ;  while  again  Milton  suggests  to  the  imagination 
what  cannot  be  measured,  great  cloudy  shapes,  phan- 
toms that  move,  misty,  grand,  sublime.  He  delights 
in  vague  and  measureless  outlines  and  vast  masses, 
and  thus  gains  grandeur  and  true  sublimity  which 
Dante,  after  all,  seldom  or  never  does.  And  this  De 
Quincey  ingeniously  argues  is  attributable  to  the  fact 
that  Milton  had  seen  mists  and  fogs  and  cloud-capped 
mountains,  and  had  been  deeply  impressed  by  them ; 
while  Dante  had  seen  natural  objects  always  in  clear 
light,  and  had  no  conception  of  the  misty  and  vague  to 
heighten,  if  indeed  it  is  not  essential  to,  the  grandeur 
of  the  sublime. 

Mr.  Grant  Allen  may  be  inclined  to  press  an  idea 
too  far  when  he  wishes  to  prove  the  presence  of  a 
Celtic  strain  in  all  our  great  artists,  whether  in  paint- 
ing, music,  or  poetry ;  but  there  can  be  no  doubt  that 
power  is  in  the  hills,  and  that  .the  power  of  the  hills  is 
more  or  less  on  them,  with  their  sense  of  shadow,  depth, 
and  passing  yet  undying  glory,  which  has  done  much 
to  give  to  the  Celtic  genius,  nursed  among  the  hills,  its 
inner  sense  of  beauty,  of  sadness,  and  mournful  change, 
of  lyric  love  and  grief,  regretful  pathos,  and  of  tragedy. 

In  a  letter  received  the  other  day  from  an  invalid 
friend  at  Hyeres,  this  point  was  very  effectively  indi- 
cated : — 

"  It  is  curious  that  these  southern  climes,  so  beautiful 
in  some  of  their  atmospheric  effects,  have  nothing  of 


Benefits  of  Angling.  237 


the  deep  poetic  effects  of  the  lovely  hills,  glades,  dells, 
and  rivers  of  England  or  Scotland.  You  require  to 
see  everything  in  the  far  distance  to  get  any  fine  effect 
at  all.  The  most  beautiful  bit  of  landscape  turns  into 
a  mud-heap  of  olive  groves  or  a  market-garden.  If 
we  had  but  a  rather  better  climate,  I  think  there  is  no 
place  more  purely  poetically  beautiful  than  the  more 
picturesque  parts  of  our  own  country — so  soft,  so 
dewy,  and  so  deliciously  changeful  under  changing 
lights  and  shades,  and  yet  restful  too." 

Full  justification  for  the  sport  of  fly-fishing  on  the 
streams  or  on  the  lakes  of  our  northern  regions,  were 
there  no  other,  might  be  found  in  this,  that  in  scarce 
any  other  manner  could  those  indulging  in  it  be  so 
unconsciously  impressed  and  educated  in  the  sense  of 
the  truly  imaginative  picturesque.  If  as  Izaak  Walton 
declared  of  angling  that  it  was  "  the  contemplative 
man's  recreation  "  northern  fly-fishing  may  be  regarded 
as  the  sport  above  all  others  that  leads  to  imaginative 
reverie  and  to  poetry. 

Even  the  rattling,  somewhat  too  boyish,  high-spirited 
"  Christopher  North  "  knew  this,  and  acted  on  it,  as  is 
to  be  seen  not  only  in  such  essays  as  "  Streams,"  but 
in  those  delightful  pathetic  tales,  "  Lights  and  Shadows 
of  Scottish  Life,"  which  are,  in  great  part  no  doubt, 
the  outcome  of  Christopher's  wanderings  by  stream  and 
glen,  by  wood  and  mountain,  and  by  moor,  into  which 
he  was  led  for  most  part  by  his  keen  love  of  the  angle 
and  the  fly  and  the  landing-net. 


XIV. 
AN  ENGLISH  STREAM. 


IT  has  been  much  the  habit  of  poets  'and  essayists  to 
moralise  the  stream  by  finding  in  it  a  symbol  of  human 
life.  Such  poems  as  Miss  Ingelow's  "  Divided  "  savour 
of  it;  and  Lord  Tennyson's  exquisite  lyric  in  "The 
Brook  :  an  Idyl  "  brings  the  parabolic  element  into  fine 
prominence — a  point  which  the  famous  "C.  L.  S.",  the 
late  Mr.  Calverley,  very  cleverly  took  advantage  of  and 
fully  brought  out  in  his  well-known  parody  of  it.  For 
the  stream  has  its  quiet  secluded  infancy  up  in  some 
remote  mountain  cradle,  where  the  winds  fan  it,  and 
the  sunshine  makes  it  radiant,  as  it  goes  laughing  play- 
ful through  its  sobbing  grasses,  waving  sedges,  or  by 
banks  bright  with  starlike  primroses,  and  ragweed  and 
ranunculus  in  their  season,  then  on,  like  flushing  youth, 
as  it  broadens  its  breast  to  sun  and  moon,  to  receive 


Wonder  of  the    Water.  239 

yet  more  fully  of  the  light  and  shade,  and  to  return 
more  readily  its  offering  to  the  winds  in  tiny  waves 
and  ripples,  and  swiftly  interchanging  sun  and  shadow, 
exulting  in  happy  "  give  and  take."  Onward  and  on- 
ward, till  over  the  gravel  it  goes  dancing  towards  its 
fullest,  where  it  falls  over  a  little  ledge,  bubbling  and 
singing  to  itself,  figuring  early  manhood,  with  little 
backward  eddies,  gusts  of  passion  and  desire,  when 
suddenly  again  it  recovers  itself,  and  sighing  now  and 
then  restfully  as  it  laps  the  margins,  passes  on  over 
a  slightly  rocky  fall  into  broader  reaches,  and  then, 
as  if  to  mirror  the  absorbment  of  the  man  in  the  wider 
and  also  the  more  intense  and  tender  ties  of  life,  it 
pours  itself  into  a  bigger  current,  to  find  its  way,  not 
lost  but  transfigured,  amid  many  influences,  towards 
the  great  ocean. 

"  The  wonder  of  the  water  is  the  song, 

It  sings  for  ever  moving  on  its  way  ; 
Now  charm  of  dropping  notelets  in  the  play 
Of  sun  and  shadow  ;  now  the  chorus  strong 
As  tumbling  o'er  the  rocks  it  doth  prolong 
Its  passion-sobs  in  eddies  circling  gay, 
In  fretted  glory  as  the  branches'  sway, 
And  then  with  dreamy  murmur  sails  along 
To  catch  a  beauty  from  an  ampler  day, 
Broad-breasted  under  sun  or  milder  moon/' 

Let  me  take  you  for  a  walk  by  the  borders  of  a  sweet 
English  stream  that  I  know  well,  where,  often  I  have 
roved  alike  at  early  morn  and  dewy  eve,  in  the  warm 
noontides  of  the  sweet  summer-time,  and  in  the  golden 
afternoons  of  autumn,  when  nature  spreads  her  richest 
tints  around,  and  the  stream  is  ready  to  reflect  it  all, 
showing  here  and  there  the  golden  radiance  finely 
transfigured  in  its  bosom,  like  a  dream,  bringing  indeed 


240  An  English  Stream. 

a  sense  of  dreamlike  absorption  and  half  trance,  as 
one  stood  and  looked  into  the  wondrous  world  reversed 
and  almost  more  beautiful  below.  Wordsworth,  it  is 

true,  speaks  of 

"  that  uncertain  heaven  received 
Into  the  bosom  of  the  steady  lake." 

But  here  very  often  there  is  little  of  uncertainty — the 
more  you  gaze  the  less  you  realise  that  element.  My 
favourite  walk  from  my  house  to  this  stream  is  over  a 
series  of  gentle  swelling  hills  that  rise  and  dip,  and  rise 
again,  and  all  along  the  course  you  come  on  little  bits 
of  broken  ragged  hedgerow,  where  the  furze  bushes 
rise  and  hang  out  their  flowers  like  lamps  along  the 
pathway,  where  if  there  is  no  legal  right-of-way,  there 
is  a  kind  of  neighbourly  allowance  and  indulgence  that 
makes  the  privilege  the  more  appreciated,  as  the  journey 
is  all  the  more  quiet  and  solitary.  And  now  and  then  the 
eye  is  gladdened  with  a  tuft  of  broom,  and  a  few  thistles 
will  rise  beside  them,  and,  oh  !  the  stir  and  chatter  that 
you  are  guilty  of  interrupting  at  certain  seasons,  when 
the  thistles  are  in  seed,  and  the  linnets  and  the  gold- 
finches are  busy  fluttering  over  it,  and  now  and  then 
utter  little  shrill  protests  against  the  presence  of  so 
many  rivals  just  there. 

"  When  three  gray  linnets  wrangle  for  the  seed  " 

sings  the  late  laureate.  Three!  In  a  little  patch  no 
bigger  than  the  top  of  the  table  on  which  I  write,  I 
have  seen  twenty,  and  now  and  then  their  motions 
making  the  thistle  down  fly  like  a  mist,  and  that 
flutterings  on  my  approach  making  the  narrow  space 
seem  alive,  as  they  uttered  their  cries  of  alarm  or 
warning,  and  simply  dropped  down  and  disappeared 


Delightful  Stillness. 


241 


on  the  other  side  of  the  clump  till  I  had  passed,  and 
were  back  again  before  I  was  actually  out  of  view. 

What  a  delightful  stillness,  freshness,"  and  repose 
there  is  about  the  stream  at  the  point  where  I  join  it. 
When  you  come  to  the  bank,  your  eye  just  catches  the 
twinkle  of  fins  —  the  dart-away  from  you  of  some 
denizen,  much  interrupted  in  his  business  by  your 
appearance.  As  you  look,  you  discover  that  the  water 
is  wonderfully  clear ;  you  can  see  the  bottom  and  all 


that  is  in  it,  as  you  look  through  the  pale  brown  water, 
and  on  the  opposite  side,  under  a  tuft  of  sedge,  you  can 
see  a  stickleback's  nest,  with  the  tail  of  the  little  fellow's 
wife  just  escaping  from  the  opening  of  it. 

I  walk  on  a  little  way,  and  soon  pass  by  slightly 
more  varied  ground,  the  borders  of  the  stream  more 
wooded,  and  the  current  a  shade  swifter.  This  is  a 
very  nice  bit  of  water  for  small  trout,  which  are  very 
fond  of  lying  in  the  deeper  pools  at  the  roots  of  the 

O 


242 


An  English  Stream. 


trees,  at  certain  hours  of  the  day,  and  are  very  active 
in  the  purling  runs  at  other  times.  Here  I  cross  a 
little  wooden  bridge,  and  proceeding  downward  on  the 
other  side,  I  find  my  good  friend,  Will  Hartley,  with 
his  angle,  fishing  as  is  his  wont.  I  bid  him  good  day, 
and  ask  him  how  he  is  getting  on. 

"  Oh,  pretty  well,  thank  *ee"  he  cries,  turning  round  ; 


"  can't  expec'  much — the  water  do  be  too  clear  'ere- 
abouts  to-day,"we  want  some  little  bit  o'  rain  to  darken 
it  afore~we  can  hope  for  much  o'  sport.  '  But  I  allus 
say  as  the  fisherman's  constitutional  is  in  patient 
waitin',  and  so  we  mun  just  wait."  I  ask  him  how  his 
friend,  Joe  Timmins,  the  keeper  is.  "  Well,"  he  says, 
"  I  hear  from  his  goodwife  this  mornin',  as  he  do  feel  a 


"  Poor'  Joe! 


243 


bit  better,  easier  like,  but  them  troubles,"  he  goes  on 
with  a  serious  look,  "  wants  a  good  share  o'  nursinV 
Poor  Joe  had  fallen  from  a  tree  he  had  ascended  after 
some  young  owls — the  branch  gave  way,  and  he  fell 
from  a  considerable  height,  breaking  his  arm  and  hurt- 
ing the  spine,  and  owing  to  cold,  erysipelas  had  set  in, 
and  Joe's  friends  were  very  anxious  about  him.  I 
express  my  sympathy  for  Joe,  and  bid  Will  Hartley 
good  day  and  pass  on. 


Further  on,  how  deliciously  it  winds,  and  ripples 
and  eddies,  by  little  headlands,  with  their  fortifications 
in  front  "of  them  of  sedges,  rushes,  and  no  end  of  water- 
weeds,  and  in  the  stiller  little  bays  and  reaches  even 
bands  of  water-lilies,  spreading  out  their  round,  broad, 
dark  green  leaves,  with  the  wonderful  white  cup, 
magically  astir  in  its  season,  in  the  centre  of  them. 


244  ^n  English  Stream. 

The  ground  rises  slightly  higher  on  the  margins,  and 
gives  the  idea  that  [the  water  has  had  more  work  than 
elsewhere  in  cutting  a  course  for  itself  through  this 
part,  and  now  exults  in  its  reward ;  for,  not  only  is  the 
place  most  beautiful,  but  it  abounds,  more  than  we  have 
yet  seen,  in  life  of  various  kinds.  The  wild  ducks  are 
fond  of  paying  this  part  a  visit  at  certain  times,  and  the 
heron,  in  the  still  of  the  evening,  will  come  and  stand 
like  a  veritable  wisp  of  foam  in  the  swifter  currents, 
under  the  shade  of  fir  tree  or  beech ;  coots  and  dab- 
chicks  appear  and  disappear  in  the  oddest  and  most 
arbitrary  manner,  while  we  now  get  tokens  in  many 
forms  of  the  presence  of  voles,  water-rats,  and  water- 
shrews.  Wherever  you  have  sedges,  flags,  and  irises, 
there  is  a  chance  of  finding  water-voles,  for  they  are 
very  fond  of  these,  as  we  have  said  already;  and 
wherever  there  is  such  a  margin  as  to  afford  at  places 
the  kind  of  aquatic  insects  that  lie  half  concealed  under 
little  stones,  you  are  almost  sure  to  see  signs  of  the 
water-shrew  if  you  look  close  enough.  As  for  the 
water-rat,  he  is  everywhere,  and  cunningly  takes  advan- 
tage of  the  presence  of  almost  everything  else,  to  make 
himself  fat  and  comfortable.  And  he  is  a  rare  swimmer 
too.  On  this  account  he  is  often  mistaken  for  the  water 
vole  by  those  who  do  not  watch  long,  though  he  swims 
differently  in  various  respects. 

This  character  of  scenery  prevails  for  a  considerable 
distance — the  streamside  forming  a  most  delightful 
walk,  so  delightful  that  advantage  has  been  taken  to 
lay  out  a  rough  sort  of  path,  not  seldom  the  resort  of 
lovers  at  the  sweet  eventide,  when  everything — earth 
and  air,  sky  and  water — seems  to  be  in  harmony  with 
the  whispers  they  use  to  impart  to  each  other  the 
"open  secrets,"  which  poets  are  never  tired  of  cele- 


The  Kingfisher.  245 


brating  in  song  and  novelists  in  novels.  We  shall  not 
intrude  on  their  province  further  than  to  say  that 
wherever  they  can  they  should  set  their  lovers  a  walk 
by  just  such  a  streamside  as  this,  whose  very  course 
may,  as  it  were,  musically  mirror  theirs,  and  their  soft 
sighings  and  whisperings  find  symbol  in  those  of  the 
running  water. 

It  is  just  about  such  parts  of  a  stream  as  this,  with 
trees  and  bushes  on  the  margin,  and  with  little  deeper 
pools  here  and  there,  that  you  may  see  the  kingfisher 


still  pursuing  his  work,  proving  that,  despite  all  the 
persecution  of  sportsmen  and  specimen-seekers,  a  few 
still  survive  to  show  to  the  careful  observer  how  lovely 
the  halcyons  are.  You  can  scarcely  tell  of  what  colour 
he  is,  he  is  so  full  of  bright  shades,  as  though  bur- 
nished, 'bronze,  chestnut,  green  and  blue,  and  red  and 
purple,  with  no  end  of  other  colours.  Even  in  the 
distance  you  would  know  him  with  his  long  bill,  his 
lengthened  wings,  and  his  short,  little,  stumpy  tail, 
that  is  better  seen  as  he  flies  than  as  he  sits  when  the 


246  An  English  Stream. 

long  wings  go  to  hide  it,  or  make  it  appear  even  less 
prominent  than  it  really  is.  Do  you  want  a  sight  of 
him  ?  Then  be  wary.  Stand  here  silent,  and  look 
through  this  low-hanging  sycamore  branch.  See !  he 
sits  still  as  a  bit  of  the  branch  on  which  he  has  perched, 
and  which  overhangs  the  water.  Look,  look  !  suddenly 
he  descends,  as  in  arc  of  a  circle,  dives ;  he  has 
found  his  prey — a  small  fish,  and  is  off  with  it  in  his 
beak  to  feed  his  young  ones,  which  are  very  care- 
fully sheltered  in  a  hole  in  the  bank  there — the  very 


strangest  of  all  our  native  birds'  nests.  It  is  formed 
merely  of  the  bones  of  the  fishes  which  he  has  eaten, 
and  which  he  disgorges,  lays  them  on  a  shelf  he  has 
formed  at  the  end  of  his  hole,  with  a  depression  in 
it,  the  larger  bones  below,  the  smaller  bones,  as  of 
minnows,  above,  and  he  contrives  to  glue  these  little 
bones  slightly  together  by  some  of  the  saliva  or  natural 
cement  which  many  birds,  swallows  and  others,  secrete 
and  use,  and  which  finds  its  highest  and  fullest  use, 
as  regards  nest-building,  at  all  events,  in  the  case  of 


"  Plea  for  the  Birds"  247 

those  Chinese  birds  that  build  what  are  called  edible 
nests. 

But  the  halcyon  is  not  very  particular  in  this  respect ; 
so  loose  and  careless  is  he,  indeed,  that  it  is  almost 
impossible  to  carry  off  in  anything  like  proper  shape 
a  halcyon's  nest ;  and  these  curiosities  have  over  and 
over  again  been  advertised  for  by  collectors  and  for 
museums,  and  I  have  even  heard  that  as  much  as 
£100  have  been  offered  for  a  fairly  perfect  specimen. 
But  such  a  run  there  is  on  Old  Halcyon — fly-fishers 
will  give  anything  almost  for  certain  feathers  of  his 
for  their  hooks — as  well  as  on  his  nest,  that  it  is  to  be 
feared  before  very  many  years  have  elapsed  he  will  be 
utterly  extinct,  unless  some  more  strict  laws  are  laid 
down  for  his  protection.  There  is,  or  used  to  be, 
a  great  prejudice  against  him  among  sportsmen  and 
fishermen,  because  it  was  believed  that  he  was  very 
fond  of,  and  devoured  trout-spawn ;  but  that  fine  orni- 
thologist and  careful  observer,  the  Rev.  H.  D.  Rawnsley, 
in  his  "  Plea  for  the  Birds,"  defends  poor  Halcyon,  and 
says  that  he  seeks  as  much  for  slugs  and  watersnails 
as  he  does  for  trout-spawn  and  minnows.  He  has 
fought  well  for  his  existence,  but  now,  when  no  part 
of  stream  or  wood  is  untraversed  or  unvisited  by  the 
ruthless  beauty-slayer,  what  hope  is  there  for  him  ? 
Poor  and  lovely  halcyon  ! 

"  With  his  plumage  shining  fair, 
On  the  bough  he  silent  sits, 
Then,  with  sudden  circle  low, 
Downward  to  the  water  flits. 

He  has  found  his  prey,  and  bears 

A  shining  fish  to  yonder  nest, 
Where  the  callow  young  ones  wait 

For  the  shining  of  his  breast. 


248  An  English  Stream. 

Welcome  signal !  how  they  raise 
Their  open  beaks  for  morsels  new  ! 

Then  the  good  repast  enjoyed, 
He  returns  where  late  he  flew. 

Sits  upon  his  perch  again, 

Like  a  figure  in  a  dream, 
Brilliant  hues  of  sun  and  rain 

Make  a  sunlight  on  the  stream. 

King  of  fishes,  truly,  thou, 

Patient  as  was  Izaak  old,* 
But  have  you  ever  in  your  heart 

A  tender  pity  all  untold  ? 

The  poetical  idea  of  the  kingfisher  making  "  a  sun- 
light "  or  a  rainbow  on  the  water  in  a  leaf-shaded 
place  has  not  perhaps  an  entirely  poetical  origin.  We 
read  in  a  good  authority — 

"  The  kingfisher  has  frequently  been  observed  hover- 
ing on  outstretched  wings  over  the  water,  and  some 
writers  believe  that  this  is  done  with  a  view  of  attracting 
the  fish  to  the  surface.  Whether  this  is  the  case  is 
not  yet  ascertained,  but  it  is  well  known  that  when  a 
light  is  thrown  at  night  on  the  water,  the  inhabitants 
of  the  '  finny  deep  '  flock  in  numbers  to  discover  the 
cause  of  the  unwonted  brilliancy." 

And  we  have  ourselves  often  sat  in  a  shady  spot  by 
the  border  of  a  brook  thickly  overhung  with  foliage, 
and  noticed  that  where  a  small  ray  of  sunlight  pene- 
trated and  struck  the  water,  there  the  small  fish  rose 
to  bask  in  it.  The  kingfisher  perhaps  makes  an 
artificial  sunlight  which  helps  him. 

In  Wood's  "  Natural  History "  it  is  said  that  the 
kingfisher  is  fond  of  music.  On  playing  an  organ  in 
a  room  facing  a  river,  it  was  found  that  several  of  the 

*  Izaak  Walton,  author  of  "The  Compleat  Angler,"  born  in  London 
1593,  and  died  in  1683. 


An   Old-fashioned  Bridge.  249 


birds  were  attracted  by  the  sounds.  Slow  and  solemn 
airs  they  enjoyed  seemingly,  but  whenever  anything 
lighter  or  more  lively  was  played  they  were  off. 

In  a  very  little  time  we  come  to  an  old-fashioned 
stone  bridge  rising  high  in  the  middle — a  great  resort 
of  anglers — a  favourite  starting-point  indeed  when  pro- 
ceeding to  fish  either  up  or  down  the  stream.  It  is, 
too,  on  certain  afternoons  a  favourite  resort  for  the 
boys  from  a  school  near  by,  the  younger  ones  running 
about  the  greeny  margins  and  searching  for  tiny  eels, 


and  this  and  that,  while  the  elders  ply  the  rod  and  line 
and  return  proud  of  a  few  small  dace  or  minnows.  In 
the  warm  afternoons  of  summer  they  will  occasionally, 
in  protected  leafy  corners  near  by,  indulge  themselves 
in  $  stealthy  bathe,  which  is  far  more  leisurely  than 
might  be  supposed  possible  in  connection  with  any- 
thing -stolen,  for  they  run  about  the  banks  and  play 
games  in  the  water. 

Often  have  I  stood  by  the  side  of  the  water  here  and 
wondered  at  the  fair  reflection  that  this  old  bridge  makes 
in  the  afternoons  when  the  sun  is  shining.  The  water 


250 


An  English  Stream. 


just  there  is  deep,  and  stiller  than  elsewhere,  with 
scarcely  a  perceptible  ripple-  or  murmur,  and  is  a  fair 
mirror  for  all  that  is  in  its  borders.  As  I  have  stood 
and  looked,  more  especially  in  the  evening  time, 
suddenly  a  trout  would  rise — a  fellow  of  a  couple  of 
pounds  at  least — after  a  midge  or  May-fly,  and  go 
down  again  with  a  plump,  sending  a  widening  circle  of 


ripples  over  the  glassy  water,  attesting  that  the  deep 
holes  round  about  the  old  arches  of  this  bridge  have 
their  finny  denizens — so  cunning,  I  came  to  learn,  that 
no  fisher,  however  skilled,  or  with  tackle  however  fine, 
had  the  slightest  chance  of  killing  these  shrewd  old 
fellows. 

Passing  onward,  we  emerge  by-and-by  into  a  barer 


A  Mar  sky  Expanse. 


251 


region,  where  the  stream,  after  recovering  itself  from  a 
passage  over  a  shallower  reach,  in  which  the  cattle  love 
to  come  and  stand  knee-deep  in  the  summer,  and  thus 
escape  as  best  they  can  from  the  flies,  gets  enclosed  in 
a  narrower  channel,  with  many  deep  pools  and  rather 
dark-looking,  slow-eddying  corners.  It  is  here,  they 
tell  us,  that  the  big  fish  love  to  lie,  and  here  that  the 
skilful  angler  with  the  worm,  after  a  fall  of  rain,  will 
be  likely  to  come  and  try  for  them. 

A  little  further  down,  just  before  the  stream  loses 
itself  in  the  big  water,  our  favourite  walk  is  lost — the 
current  spreads  itself  over  a  half  marshy  expanse,  with 
no  end  of  little  pools ;  and  not  far  off  is  a  row  of  fisher- 
men's huts — houses  they  can  hardly  be  named — and 
their  boats,  or  "  cobbles,"  as  they  would  call  them  in 
Scotland  and  the  North,  lie  there  fastened  to  old  oak 
piles,  unless  in  the  season  when  they  are  busy  at  the 
fishing.  In  the  off-season  you  are  sure  to  find  them  in 
front  of  these  huts  making  nets  or  doing  other  such 
work,  and  they  will  be  very  willing  to  row  you  about 
on  the  river,  or  take  you  to  the  best  fishing  grounds 
for  a  comparatively  small  fee. 


XV. 

WILD-DUCKS,   WATER-BIRDS,  AND 
SEA-FOWL. 

IF  you  chance  to  know  any  quiet 
bit  of  water,  either  in  the  shape 
of  small  pond  or  enlargement  of 
a  little  stream,  pretty  well  sur- 
rounded by  rushes,  sedges,  and 
foliage,  you  are  certain  now  and 

then  to  find  a  wild-duck  upon  it,  diving  and  dabbling 
about  in  search  of  food.  Some  of  them  are  very  pretty 
in  plumage.  The  mallard  is  every  way  a  fine  bird, 
with  its  lovely  colours  and  tufted  tail.  When  in  full 
plumage,  his  head  is  velvety  green,  and  his  body  and 
wings  varied  of  the  finest  tints  of  grey  and  brown  and 
purple.  But  during  the  summer  months,  as  if  nature 
had  resorted  to  a  device  to  save  the  species,  or  to 
ensure  the  maintenance  of  numbers,  the  cock-mallard 
is  stripped  of  his  beauty  and  reduced  to  a  likeness  to 
his  "  womenkind."  This  is  owing  to  a  very  severe 
and  unusual  moult.  All  the  primary  wing  feathers 
come  off  at  once,  and  he  thus  assumes  sober  colours 
till  he  can  fly  again.  Were  it  not  for  this  arrange- 
ment of  subdued  colouring,  he  would  be  too  easily 
recognised,  and  too  easily  hunted  and  shot.  No  doubt 
this  is  a  " protective"  arrangement  in  great  measure. 
The  mallard  is  fond  of  marshy  lands,  and  in  the  winter, 


Mallard  and  Teal. 


253 


MALLARD. 


if  the  weather  is  severe,  seeks  the  sea-shore,  where  it 
is  to  be  seen  foraging  industriously  for  small  molluscs, 
insects,  and  little  fishes.  The  extension  of  draining, 
and  the  taking  in  of  wet  heaths  and  waste  lands,  has 
somewhat  curtailed 
its  numbers,  but  in 
some  favourable  dis- 
tricts it  is  still  quite 
common.  It  is  well 
worth  notice,  were  it 
only  for  the  fact  that 
it  is  the  bird  from 
which  all  our  common 
domesticated  ducks 
are  derived ;  and 
when  we  contrast  it 
with  them,  we  see 

once  more  how  man,  when  he  tames  and  subdues  the 
lower  creatures  to  his  own  uses,  at  once  improves  and 
injures.  The  mallard  is  perhaps  the  swiftest  in  flight 
of  all  the  ducks,  making  a  peculiar  whistling  sound 
with  its  strong  wing 
feathers  as  it  goes, 
and,  if  suddenly  dis- 
turbed, it  rises  up 
into  the  air,  recovers 
itself  suddenly,  and 
isaff. 

The  common  teal 
is  one  of  the  smallest 
of  the  ducks,  very 

1  JT,,/Y1  j. 

nimble  and   light  in 

the  water,  and  also  very  pretty,  though  hardly  so  hand- 
some as  the  pintail,  but,  unlike  it,  is  very  far  from  shy, 


254     Wild  Ducks,    Water- Birds,  Sea- Fowl. 


PINTAIL. 


and  will  occasionally  allow  you  to  come  pretty  near 
to  it.     The   widgeon  only  stays  with   us  during  the 

winter,  and  appears 
in  vast  flocks.  It 
gives  grass  and  other 
plants  a  much  greater 
prominence  in  its  diet 
than  any  of  the  other 
wild  ducks,  and  de- 
lights in  salt  grasses. 
Owing  to  the  many 
enemies  with  which 
the  young  of  the  wild 
duck  would  be  sur- 
rounded did  the  parents  nest  near  to  the  water  which 
they  frequent,  it  is  the  habit  with  many  of  the  species 
to  build  in  the  most  unexpected  parts.  Some  nests 
may  be  found  at  a  considerable  distance  from  the  water, 
amid  tussocks  of  dry  grass  and  furze  on  the  moors, 
or  even  in  heather  and  in  low  fir  trees.  Not  the  least 
among  these  enemies  is  the  intrusive  cruel  brown 
rat,  to  which  the  young  of  other  water-birds  too  often 
fall  a  prey.  The  ducks  are  excellent  parents,  and  are 
on  the  watch  constantly  against  the  many  enemies  of 
their  young. 

Beside  the  ducks  there  are,  on  or  near  any  pond  or 
retired  piece  of  water,  sure  to  be  representatives  of 
other  species — coots  as  well  as  moor-hens — with  many 
varieties  of  snipe.  The  coot  is  a  most  nimble  bird, 
with  great  powers  in  swimming  and  in  doing  work  under 
water.  One  peculiarity  the  coot  has  :  though  its  feet 
are  shorter  than  those  of  the  water-hen,  this  dis- 
advantage is  made  up  to  it  by  a  slight  fringe  of 
webbing,  which  is  no  doubt  of  the  greatest  benefit  to 


The  Coot.  255 


it  in  quickness  of  movement  in  the  water.  Dr.  Stanley 
tells  how  the  coot  differs  from  the  waterhen  in  the 
building  of  its  nest.  The  coot  prefers  having  it  float- 
ing on  the  surface,  and  not  supported  on  stems  of 
rushes,  &c.,  but  that  it  may  rise  with  the  water,  and 
not  be  moved  away  from  its  position  by  stormy  winds ; 
it  is,  as  it  were,  moored  to  stems  of  reeds  or  rushes, 
by  a  kind  of  loose  rings,  so  that  it  will  rise  exactly  as 
the  water  rises.  Both  coots  and  waterhens,  as  has 
been  already  said,  cover  their  eggs  in  the  nests  on 
rising  from  and  leaving  them,  and  this  they  do,  with 
such  an  artistic  eye  to  carelessness  of  effect,  that  you 
might  look  on  one  of  their  nests  and  fancy  it  was  a 
deserted  one.  A  thick  foundation  of  rush  leaves  and 
other  matter  is  formed  under  the  coot's  nest  proper,  to 
keep  it  from  damp.  This  bird  lays  from  six  to  nine 
eggs,  which  are  like  those  of  the  waterhen,  but  larger. 
The  poor  coot  has  suffered  much  in  late  years,  owing 
to  a  belief,  whether  well  or  ill  founded,  that  it  eats  the 
spawn  of  fishes ;  and  when  once  an  idea  of  this  sort 
gains  ground  among  the  sporting  community,  and  is 
taken  up  by  the  rustics,  alack  for  the  poor  incriminated 
bird.  It  matters  not  what  good  qualities  it  may  have 
otherwise,  it  is  doomed,  as  water  voles  and  owls  were 
for  so  long  doomed  by  farmers  and  others. 

The  mallard  and  the  teal  are   both  largely   night 
feeders.     They  resort  after  twilight  to  favourite  spots, 
where  their  tit-bits  grow  and  half  play  themselves  on 
the  water,  and  sleep  and  rest  through  the  day. 

Th£  ducks  are  broadly  divided  into  surface  and  diving 
ducks ;  the  first  class  mostly  confine  themselves  to  fresh 
water,  and  the  latter  are  properly  sea-fowl.  In  addition 
to  those  which  we  have  already  named,  there  are  the 
shoveller  and  the  sheldrake.  The  second  class  includes 


256     Wild  Ducks,    Water- Birds,  Sea-Fowl. 

the  tufted  duck — a  fine  bird — the  scaup,  the  smew,  the 
scoter,  the  surf-scoter,  the  velvet  scoter,  the  pochard 
with  its  red  head,  and  the  beautiful  golden-eye,  and  the 
interesting  eider  duck  is  frequently  to  be  seen. 

The  scaup  is  but  a  winter  visitor,  and  has  not  been 
known  to  breed  here;  and  of  the  pochard  almost  the 
same  may  be  said,  only  that  it  has  been  known  in  rare 
cases  to  breed  here.  Of  these,  the  most  beautiful  by 
far  is  the  last  named.  The  golden-eye  is  remarkable 
for  its  habit  of  nesting  in  holes  in  trees,  sometimes  a 
good  way  distant  from  the  water,  and  for  transporting 
its  young  from  thence  to  the  water,  like  the  coots  and 
water-hens  when  building  high,  and  it  is  said  that  the 
young  golden-eyes  are  held  under  the  bill  of  the  parent, 
and  supported  by  the  neck. 

The  family  of  the  mergansers,  all  divers,  may  next 
be  noticed  here.  The  sawbill,  or  jacksaw,  derives  its 
name  from  its  bill  being  serrated  on  both  sides,  exactly 
like  two  saws  meeting.  It  is  a  very  expert  diver,  and 
will  remain  at  the  bottom  walking  along  in  search  of 
food  for  a  couple  of  minutes  or  more.  If  its  nest  has 
been  placed  at  a  distance  from  the  river  or  lake,  it 
conveys  the  young  ones  in  the  bill  or  on  the  back  to 
the  water.  Macgillivray  says  that  once  he  watched  a 
flock  of  red  mergansers  pursuing  sand-eels.  The  birds 
moved  under  the  water  with  almost  as  much  velocity  as 
in  the  air,  and  often  rose  to  breathe  at  a  distance  01 
200  yards  from  the  spot  where  they  had  dived.  One  or 
these  birds  was  caught  in  a  net  at  a  depth  of  thirty 
fathoms.  The  swiftness  of  the  divers  in  the  water,  and 
the  distances  they  traverse,  are  almost  incredible.  It  has 
been  computed  that  a  red-throated  diver  swims  about 
four  and  a  half  miles  on  the  surface  of  the  water,  and 
between  six  and  seven  beneath  the  surface,  per  hour. 


The  Loon  or  Crested  Grebe.  257 

On  the  larger  sheets  of  water  you  are  almost  sure  to 
see  some  of  the  more  noted  divers — beautiful  birds  and 
well  worth  watching.  You  are  lucky  if  you  see  the  loon, 
which  is  very  shy  and  very  expert.  John  Burroughs, 
the  well-known  American  naturalist,  says — 

"  Its  wings  are  more  than  wings  in  the  water.  It 
plunges  into  the  denser  air,  and  flies  with  incredible 
speed.  Its  head  and  beak  form  a  sharp  point  to  its 
tapering  neck.  Its  wings  are  far  in  front,  and  its  legs 
equally  far  in  the  rear,  and  its  course  through  the 
crystal  depths  is  like  the  speed  of  an  arrow.  In  the 
northern  lakes  it  has  been  taken  forty  feet  under  water 
upon  hooks  baited  for  the  large  lake  trout.  I  had 
never  seen  one  till  last  fall,  when  one  appeared  on  the 
river  in  front  of  my  house.  I  knew  instantly  it  was 
the  loon.  Who  could  not,  tell  a  loon  a  half-mile  or 
more  away,  though  he  had  never  seen  one  before  ? 
The  river  was  like  glass,  and  every  movement  of  the 
bird  as  it  sported  about  broke  the  surface  into  ripples, 
that  revealed  it  far  and  wide.  Presently  a  boat  shot 
out  from  shore,  and  went  ripping  up  the  surface  toward 
the  loon.  The  creature  at  once  seemed  to  divine  the 
intentions  of  the  boatman,  and  sided  off  obliquely, 
keeping  a  sharp  look-out  as  if  to  make  sure  it  was 
pursued.  A  steamer  came  down  and  passed  between 
them  ;  and  when  the  way  was  again  clear,  the  loon  was 
still  swimming  on  the  surface.  Presently  it  disappeared 
unde'r  the  water,  and  the  boatman  pulled  sharp  and 
hard.  Ln  a  few  moments  the  bird  reappeared  some 
rods  further  on,  as  if  to  make  an  observation.  Seeing 
it  was  being  pursued,  and  no  mistake,  it  dived  quickly, 
and  when  it  came  up  again  had  gone  many  times  as 
far  as  the  boat  had  in  the  same  space  of  time.  Then 
it  dived  again,  and  distanced  its  pursuer  so  easily  that 

R 


258     Wild  Ducks,  Water- Birds,  Sea- Fowl. 


he  gave  over  the  chase  and  rested  upon  his  oars.  But 
the  bird  made  a  final  plunge,  and  when  it  emerged 
upon  the  surface  again  it  was  over  a  mile  away.  Its 
course  must  have  been,  and  doubtless  was,  an  actual 
flight  under  water,  and  half  as  fast  as  the  crow  flies  in 
the  air.  The  loon  would  have  delighted  the  old  poets. 
Its  wild  demoniac  laughter  awakens  the  echoes  on  the 
solitary  lakes,  and  its  ferity  and  hardiness  were  kindred 
to  those  robust  spirits." 

The  loon,  or  crested  grebe,  is  indeed  a  most  interest- 
ing bird.  Whoever  has  seen  him,  as  Mr.  Burroughs 
did,  cannot  but  admire  him.  He  pairs  for  life,  and 
both  sexes  are  devotedly  attached  to  the  young.  They 
haunt  the  same  nesting  places  year  after  year.  They 
lead  out  their  young  ones,  and  take  them  down  with 
them  under  their  wings  when  they  dive.  The  young 
swim  about  quite  freely  as  soon  as  they  are  hatched. 
The  nest  is  by  no  means  artistic — a  mere  rough  mass 
of  flags  and  rushes  and  grasses,  like  that  of  the  coot, 
partly  sunk  under  the  water  and  partly  raised  above  it, 

and  contains  three, 
four,  and  sometimes 
five,  white  or  pale- 
greenish  white  eggs. 
And  certainly  not 
the  least  among  the 
amenities  of  the  sea- 
side are  the  oppor- 
tunities it  affords  for 
the  study  of  the  gulls, 
terns,  sea-pies,  the 
KITTIWAKE.  kittiwakes,  black- 

backed  gulls,  herring -gulls,  skuas,  and  others,  very 
remarkable  in  their  manner  of  life,  their  powers  of 


The  Divers.  259 


wing,  their  powers  in  the  water,  and  so  much  else. 
Who  that  has  watched  the  sea-gull  as  it  pauses  in  its 
flight,  and  hangs  suspended  as  if  resting  on  air,  abso- 
lutely still,  observing  what  is  beneath  it,  and  has  not 
wondered  at  the  beauty  of  the  bird ;  or  when  voyaging 
by  ship,  or  rowing  about  near  the  shore,  has  seen 
some  of  those  birds  sit  on  the  waves  as  though  on 
some  airy  swinging  nest,  and  has  not  admired  their 
grace  and  wonderful  adaptation  to  their  mode  of  life. 
With  the  storm-petrel  and  its  movements,  most  people 
have  thus  become  familiar.  The  sea-pie  or  pied  oyster- 
catcher  affects  localities  where  it  can  find  oysters, 
mussels,  or  limpets,  and  these  it  detaches  and  breaks 
with  its  bright  red  bill,  which  is  admirably  adapted 
to  this  work,  being  literally  chisel-shaped.  Although 
for  the  greatest  experts  in  the  diving  way  you  must 
go  further  afield  than  the  most  attractive  portions  of 
our  coasts,  and  find  the  penguins,  the  puffins,  or  the 
beautiful  black-throated  divers,  which  are  fonder  of 
more  northern  temperatures,  though  the  last-named 
may  be  seen  in  some  parts  of  the  northern  coasts  of 
Scotland.  There  is  a  penguin  in  the  fish-house  of  the 
Zoological  Gardens  at  Regent's  Park,  whose  powers 
in  diving  the  keeper  exhibits  so  many  times  a  day  by 
throwing  small  fishes  for  it  into  water  in  a  glass- fronted 
tank — the  bird,  for  the  nonce,  becomes  a  fish,  and  the 
small  fry  are  soon  snapped  up  :  at  the  end  of  every  line 
of  movement  a  fish  is  devoured,  and  all  with  such 
decision  and  despatch  as  gives  one  a  wholly  new  idea 
of  the  powers  of  the  diver  birds.  A  shag  also  dives. 

But  with  the  gulls  and  the  sea-ducks  alone  you  will 
find  plenty  to  interest  you  if  you  watch  them  well; 
and  all  round  our  shores,  especially  on  high  rocky 
cliffs,  where  the  seabirds  delight  to  build,  they  fly  in 


260     Wild  Ducks,   Water- Birds,  Sea- Fowl. 

countless  flocks.  There  is  a  very  fine  range  of  rocks 
beyond  Hastings  which  they  much  affect,  and  another 
near  Ramsgate,  of  which  we  give  here  a  little  drawing. 
That  lovely  bird,  the  great  northern  diver,  is  to  be 
seen  at  many  places  on  the  coasts  of  Devon  and 


COAST  SCENE,    WITH   SEA    BIRDS. 


Cornwall,  and  right  well  worthy  he  is  of  being  seen. 
Hardly  less  so  the  lovely,  great,  black-backed  gull, 
which  is  more  common  in  the  south.  Here  is  an 
admirable  picture  of  it  from  the  pen  of  one  of  our  most 
gifted  early  ornithologists:  — 

"The  contrast  between  the  dark  purple  tint  of  his 
back  and  wings,  and  the  snowy  white  of  the  rest  of 
his  plumage,  with  the  bright  carmine-patched  yellow 
of  his  powerful  bill,  and  the  delicate  pinkish  hue  of  his 
feet,  render  him  an  object  at  all  times  agreeable  to  the 
sight.  No  sprinkling  of  dust,  no  spot  of  mud,  ever 
soils  his  downy  clothing;  his  bill  exhibits  no  tinge 
derived  from  the  subject  of  his  last  meal,  bloody  or 
half  putrid  though  it  be ;  and  his  feet,  laved  by  the 
clear  brine,  are  beautifully  pure.  There  he  stands  on 
the  sandy  point,  the  guardian,  as  it  were,  of  that  flock 


Wild  Geese.  261 


of  not  less  cleanly  and  scarcely  less  lovely  herring- 
gulls  and  sea-mews.  But,  not  giving  us  more  credit 
for  our  good  intentions  than  we  deserve,  he  spreads 
out  his  large  wings,  stretches  forth  his  long  neck,  runs 
a  few  paces,  and,  uttering  a  loud  and  screaming  cry, 
springs  into  the  air.  Some  gentle  flaps  of  his  vigorous 
wings  carry  him  to  a  safe  distance,  when  he  alights 
on  the  smooth  water,  and  is  frequently  joined  by  his 
clamorous  companions.  Buoyantly  they  float,  each 
with  his  head  to  the  wind,  like  a  fleet  of  merchantmen 
at  anchor,  secured  from  the  attacks  of  pirates  by  the 
presence  of  their  convoy."  * 

The  wild  geese,  in  very  severe  seasons,  are  to  be 
found  in  considerable  numbers  among  the  birds  at  the 
seashore.  They  may  be  known  by  the  V-shaped  order 
in  which  they  invariably  fly  (for  they  are  social  birds), 
and  by  the  peculiar  cry  of  hank,  hank,  hank,  which 
they  now  and  then  utter  as  they  go.  There  are  three 
main  families  of  wild  geese,  the  lag  geese,  the  grey 
geese,  and  the  brent  geese  ;  the  former  are  day  feeders, 
and  divide  their  time  between  the  sea  or  the  marshy 
margins  of  the  lake  or  the  field.  The  brent  geese,  on 
the  contrary,  are  to  a  large  extent  night  feeders,  like 
the  mallard  and  the  teal.  They  are  fond  of  certain 
grasses,  and  will  go  a  considerable  distance  to  feed  on 
the  newly  sprouting  winter  wheat ;  and  when  they  are 
feeding  in  such  circumstances,  like  the  crows  and  the 
woo'd-pigeons,  they  invariably  post  sentinels,  and  are 
very  cunning  and  cautious — difficult  to  get  near  to, 
whether  at  the  seaside,  by  margin  of  inland  lake,  or 
while  feeding  in  the  fields.  The  man  who  has  stalked 
and  shot  a  wild  goose  may  consider  himself  a  good 
shot.  The  contrast  between  the  wild  geese  and  the 
*  Macgillivray's  "Birds." 


262     Wild  Ducks,   Water- Birds,   Sea- Fowl. 


GANNET. 


domesticated    variety   is  very    striking   in    not    a   few 
respects. 

Besides  those  already  named,  there  are  gannets  or 
solan  geese,  with  their  strange  cry,  and  their  fond- 
ness for  the  herrings, 
so  great,  indeed,  that 
in  the  season  they 
live  entirely  on  her- 
rings, and,  it  is  said, 
take  for  their  share  of 
the  shoals  more  than 
does  the  whole  fishing 
fleet  of  Scotland.  The 
plan  of  the  gannet  in 
catching  its  prey  is 
verypeculiar.  It  notes 
where  the  fish  are,  and  the  depth  at  which  they  are 
swimming,  then  flies  up  to  what  it  considers  the  height 
needed  to  give  it  impetus  in  diving  to  the  exact  point 
in  the  water.  It  has  been  a  subject  of  dispute  whether 
the  bird  was  named  from  the  Solent  or  gave  the  name 
to  the  Solent.*  The  guillemots,  too,  who  are  so  faith- 
ful to  their  young  that  they  will  suffer  themselves  to 
be  seized  rather  than  leave  the  nest.  Cormorants,  too, 
may  often  be  seen,  dark  and  striking  figures,  among 
the  gulls.  The  cormorant  is  to  this  day,  in  China  and 
Japan,  trained  to  catch  fish.  The  custom  is  to  pass  a 
leather  band  round  the  neck  of  the  bird,  so  that  it 

*  Though  known  also  as  solan  geese,  the  gannets  do  not  scientifically 
belong  to  the  anseres  or  goose  family  at  all,  but  are  grouped  along  with 
the  cormorants  in  a  separate  class,  the  Pelecanida,  and  the  name  of  the 
species  is  Sttla  bassana.  It  is  the  more  surprising,  therefore,  that  Mr. 
John  Burroughs,  in  his  excellent  series  of  essays,  ''Fresh  Fields,"  should 
write  of  the  gannets  and  solan  geese  ;  for  solan  here  he  must  mean 
lag  geese,  brent  geese,  or  bean  geese. 


Cormorant- Fishing.  263 

cannot  swallow  what  it  catches.  A  man  on  a  raft  has 
two  cormorant  assistants — the  one  is  resting  while  the 
other  is  fishing — and  the  man  uses  a  long  pole,  which 
he  stretches  out  to  the  point  where  the  bird  rises,  and 
aids  it  to  come  on  the  raft  with  its  prize.  This  style  of 
fishing  was  practised  in  our  own  country  up,  at  all 
events,  to  the  time  of  Charles  the  First ;  for  we  find 
from  authoritative  documents  that  the  fishing  birds  were 
procured  from  Norfolk,  and  that  he  had  a  Master  of  the 
Cormorants.  Gunpowder  made  an  end  of  hawking. 
We  are  not  aware  exactly  what  put  an  end  to  cor- 
morant fishing  in  England  :  possibly  it  just  passed  out 
of  fashion.  As  in  the  case  of  catching  fish  with  tamed 
otters,  where  the  animal  every  short  time  gets  a  fish  to 
encourage  him  to  go  on,  so  precisely  do  the  cormorants. 

As  for  the  petrels,  they  are  everywhere ;  and  the  tiny 
stormy  petrel,  though  the  smallest  of  all,  as  bold  as 
any,  and  perhaps  most  enduring.  Petrels  have  been 
observed  2000  miles  from  land.  The  giant  frigate 
bird,  black  and  bold,  has  been  seen  400  leagues  from 
land,  and  yet  is  said  to  return  every  night  to  its  solitary 
roost — which  will  suffice  to  give  an  idea  of  the  power 
of  wing  in  these  sea-birds.  But  the  penguin,  which 
has  but  undeveloped  wings,  has  transmuted  them  into 
the  most  splendid  oars  or  paddles.  It  moves  through 
the  water  at  such  a  rate  that  few.  fishes  can  surpass  it ; 
and  it  has  been  seen  quietly  paddling  at  no  less  a 
distance  than  1000  miles  from  land. 

Certain  other  birds  are  very  fond  of  periodically 
paying  the  sea-shore  a  visit  to  swell  the  company  and 
give  variety.  The  ring  dotterel,  that  robin  redbreast  of 
the  sea-shore,  which  the  natives  in  certain  parts  will 
not  shoot,  is  a  pretty  bird,  gentle  and  trustful,  and 
pipes  in  a  cheerful  way  as  it  moves  along.  The 


264     Wild  Ducks,   Water- Birds,  Sea- Fowl. 


dab-chick,  or  little  grebe,  will  sometimes  pass  down  from 

marshy  lands  to  the  sea- 
shore, and  do  a  little  bit  of 
business  in  the  shallower 
pools  left  by  the  tide,  moving 
about  them  with  a  quick- 
ness and  buoyancy  all  its 
own.  From  its  smallness 
and  its  darting  swiftness 
amid  its  bigger  companions, 
it  has  been  likened  to  a 
torpedo  boat  among  other 
and  heavier  craft.  The 
hooded  crow  with  his  grey 
coat  loves  the  sea-shore 
too,  and  will  sometimes  be 
seen  quietly  feeding  near  to 
wild  ducks,  black-backed 
gulls,  and  herring  gulls. 

One  of  the  prettiest  and  most  interesting  denizens  of 
the  sea-shore  at  certain  seasons  is  the  turnstone.  It  is 
a  very  nimble  bird,  and  has  good  right  to  the  name  it 
bears.  Some  very  interesting  points  have  been  noted 
about  the  life  and  habits  of  the  turnstone,  which  have 
been  very  admirably  summed  up  in  that  carefully 
edited,  well-written  and  beautifully  illustrated  work 
on  Shooting  (one  of  the  "  Badminton  Library  "  Series), 
edited  by  Lord  Walsingham  and  Sir  Ralph  Payne- 
Gallwey,  where  we  find  the  following  passage  : — 

"  The  turnstone  is  a  handsome  bird,  about  as  large 
as  a  thrush,  and  having  a  black,  chestnut,  and  white 
appearance.  It  derives  its  name  from  its  habit  of 
running  about  on  the  beach,  and  turning  over  stones 
with  its  bill  in  order  to  obtain  the  small  Crustacea  that 


The    Turnstone. 


265 


TURNSTONE. 


lie  underneath.  We  have  often  seen  one  turnstone 
run  up  and  assist  another  in  doing  this,  and  have  even 
noticed  three  of  them 
at  work  raising  one 
stone,  like  quarrymen 
with  their  crowbars. 
They  do  not  merely 
lift  a  stone  and  reach 
under  it,  but  gradu- 
ally hoist  it  up  till 
it  balances  upright, 
then  with  a  great 
effort  the  stone  is 
pushed  over,  and  all 
is  exposed  underneath.  If  a  strange  turnstone  appears 
on  the  scene  who  did  not  assist  in  the  work,  there  is 
a  great  scrimmage,  and  the  interloper  is  sent  about  his 
business.  We  once  watched  two  turnstones  for  a  full 
hour  trying  to  turn  over  a  dead  fish,  nearly  a  foot 
long,  without  success.  We  longed  to  help  them  in 
their  struggles,  but  dared  not  come  forward  for  fear  of 
frightening  them  away.  Finally,  with  a  strong  heave 
and  a  heave  all  together,  over  went  the  fish,  to  our  very 
great  gratification.  It  was  a  pleasure  to  see  through 
a  glass  how  the  birds  revelled  in  all  manner  of  creep- 
ing things,  which  their  hard  won  success  had  exposed 
to  view." 

One  of  the  most  striking  passages  in  the  life  of 
Thomas  Edward,  the  Banff  naturalist,  tells  precisely 
the  same  story,  how,  seeing  two  of  these  birds  on  the 
beach  near  Banff,  he  crept  through  the  "  bents,"  till  he 
got  so  near  as  to  be  able  to  watch  them  in  their  efforts 
to  turn  over  a  big  fish  which  had  sunk  an  inch  or  two 
in  the  sand,  how  they  tunnelled  under  it  and  under  it, 


266     Wild  Ducks,   Water-Birds,  Sea-Fowl. 

till,  at  last,  it  fell  over  to  yield  them  a  rich  reward  for 
patient  perseverance  and  hard  work. 

Wonderful,  too,  is  the  adaptation  in  the  eggs  of  some 
of  these  birds.  Many  of  them  build  what  of  a  nest  they 
have  on  the  almost  flat  ledges  of  these  lofty  rocks — it 
may  be  midway  between  the  base  and  the  top — and  as 
they  do  not  have  the  protection  of  the  soft  encircling 
walls  of  nest  that  most  other  birds'  eggs  have,  the  egg 
is  in  form  large  at  the  one  end  and  small  at  the  other. 
Some  lay  only  one  egg,  others  more,  and  in  this  case, 
when  one  or  two  of  them  are  laid  together,  they  will 
not  have  so  much  the  tendency  to  roll  away.  If  you 
try  the  difference  between  an  ordinary  egg  and  some- 
thing the  shape  of  the  egg  of  the  guillemot,  you  will 
find  how  the  eggs  are  in  this  respect  protected.  The 
sea-bird's  egg  will  much  more  decidedly  roll  round 
within  a  small  circle  than  will  the  other,  and  when  you 
set  two  or  three  objects  of  this  form  together,  the  small 
end  inside,  as  the  birds  lay  them,  they  will  hardly  roll 
away  from  each  other,  even  though  touched.  When 
you  have  put  six  or  seven  of  them  together  in  this  way, 
they  seem  veritably  to  act  as  wedges  to  each  other. 

It  is  quite  a  business  at  some  parts  to  go  in  search  of 
the  sea-birds'  eggs  or  young,  and  many  are  the  adven- 
tures and  the  perilous  positions  in  which  the  searchers 
have  found  themselves.  The  plan,  in  many  cases,  is  to 
lower  the  searcher  down  by  ropes  and  pulleys  to  the 
exact  ledge  or  ledges  where  the  nests  are,  but  so  deter- 
mined are  the  old  birds,  and  such  onslaughts  have  they 
made  sometimes  on  their  assailant,  both  with  beak  and 
wing,  that  they  have  compelled  him  to  retreat  unsuccess- 
ful ;  and  there  is  even  record  of  their  having  so  driven 
the  man  in  defending  himself  against  the  stroke  of  their 
wings,  that  he  has  lost  his  balance,  and  fallen  down,  to 


Gulls  in  the   Thames.  267 

be  picked  up  maimed  and  contused  on  the  beach  below, 
or  in  the  sea  if  the  tide  were  high. 

In  the  winter,  when  the  weather  is  very  severe, 
flocks  of  these  sea-birds  will  come  up  the  rivers  in 
search  of  food.  Very  beautiful  it  is  to  see  them  pois- 
ing themselves  over  the  water  of  the  river,  and  then 
perhaps  descending  and  diving.  The  Thames,  during 
the  severe  weather  in  January  1893,  was  invaded  by 
flocks  of  these  birds,  which  sailed  about  and  showed 
so  many  exquisite  manoeuvres  that  not  a  few  stood  to 
watch  and  to  admire  them.  There  were,  alas !  a  few, 
too,  who  were  fain,  with  the  perverted  instinct  of  the 
sportsman,  merely  to  maim  or  kill  them.  A  well- 
known  writer  on  natural  history  subjects  gave  an 
account  of  his  observations  in  one  of  the  illustrated 
weeklies.  He  told  how  these  beautiful  birds  hung 
suspended  over  those  who  held  out  food,  and  de- 
scended almost  to  obtain  it  from  the  hand,  and  then 
when  it  was  dropped,  seized  it  in  mid-air  with  amazing 
quickness  and  precision. 

But  not  only  are  the  sea-birds  an  element  of  beauty 
and  attraction  about  our  coasts,  they  have  their  uses 
too.  They  take  their  tribute  of  the  sea,  but  they  do 
their  service  for  man  also.  They  are  the  great  sca- 
vengers of  the  shore,  of  the  pools,  bays,  and  eddies, 
which  but  for  them  would  often  not  be  so  pleasant. 
"Any  one,"  says  Mr.  H.  D.  Rawnsley  in  his  "Plea 
for  the  Birds,"  "who  has  watched  them  at  work  after 
the  herring  boats  have  come  in  at  Whitby,  or  at  low 
tide  has  seen  what  public  service  they  do  by  the 
Bristol  quays,  will  realise  that  the  '  ocean,  at  her  task 
of  pure  ablution'  round  our  English  shores,  has  in  the 
sea-gulls  [and  other  sea-birds]  a  very  competent  and 
assiduous  band  of  helpers." 


268     Wild  Ducks,    Water- Birds,  Sea- Fowl. 

In  another  way  the  sea-birds  are  man's  helpers. 
The  fisherman  has  often  to  take  his  cue  from  them. 
In  1867,  the  Tynwald  Court  of  Keys  in  the  Isle  of 
Man  passed  a  bill  to  prevent  the  feather  hunters  from 
destroying  the  wild-birds  of  their  coast,  and  they  urged 
this  on  the  ground,  among  others,  that  from  good  evi- 
dence they  considered  the  gulls  of  great  importance  to 
the  herring  fishers,  as  indicators  of  the  localities  of  the 
"  schools  "  or  shoals  of  fish,  and  they  added  that  they 
were  "of  much  use  for  sanitary  purposes,  by  reason 
that  they  remove  the  offal  of  fish  from  the  harbours 
and  shores." 

The  sea-birds  have  been,  and  indeed  continue  to  be, 
favourite  subjects  with  the  poets.  Their  airy,  graceful, 
bold  flight  and  powers  of  holding  themselves  suspended, 
as  it  were,  in  the  air  for  so  much  longer  a  time  than 
any  other  bird,  unless  it  may  be  certain  of  the  eagles, 
their  capability  of  floating  on  the  waves,  and  their  won- 
derful powers  of  diving,  have  strongly  appealed  to  the 
tuneful  brethren.  And  no  wonder.  Here  is  a  verse 
from  one  poem,  which  we  much  admire  for  its  freedom, 
swing,  and  fine  sense  of  the  sentiment  of  the  subject : — 

"  Birds  of  the  sea,  they  rejoice  in  storms  ; 
On  the  top  of  the  wave  you  may  see  their  forms  ; 
They  run  and  dive,  and  they  whirl  and  fly, 
Where  the  glittering  foam- spray  breaks  on  high  : 
And  against  the  face  of  the  strongest  gale, 

.  Like  phantom  ships,  they  soar  and  sail." 

And  here  is  another  from  a  poem  almost  equally 
good  : — 

"  Oh,  where  doth  the  sea  bird  find  a  home, 
When  the  loud  winds  lash  the  whitened  foam, 
And  the  rage  of  winter  with  booming  swell 
Is  heard  like  the  tones  of  a  demon's  yell  ? 


Poems  to  Sea- Birds.  269 

Is  it  far  in  the  depths  of  some  inland  bower, 
Away  from  the  scene's  of  destruction's  power  ? 
Not  there  is  the  sea  bird's  home. 

When  the  fire-winged  lightning  flashes  by, 
And  the  thunder  rolls  o'er  the  blackened  sky, 
When  terror  sits  brooding  o'er  air  and  earth, 
As  if  to  hail  a  demon's  birth, 
Away,  away,  on  the  shrieking  wind, 
Leaving  the  thoughts  of  fear  behind, 
Doth  the  hardy  sea  bird  roam. 

Not  on  the  topmost  bough  of  the  tree, 
Away  from  the  sound  of  his  native  sea, 
But  like  a  king  on  his  craggy  throne 
He  seateth  him,  and  there  alone 
Watching  the  wrecks  of  grandeur  made, 
When  the  storm-fiend  o'er  the  waters  played, 
Doth  the  sea  bird  find  a  rest." 

Mr.  Alexander  Maclagan  has  these  two  fine  stanzas 
in  his  poem,  " To  a  Wounded  Sea  Bird": — 

"  Alas  for  thee,  poor  bird  !  no  more 
'Twill  be  a  joy  with  them  to  soar 

Through  sunshine,  calm,  or  storm  ; 
Nor  on  the  shelly  shore  to  land, 
And  sit  like  sunshine  on  the  sand, 

Pluming  thy  beauteous  form. 


Cold,  nestled  on  the  black  sea  rock, 
I  hear  thy  little  feathered  flock 

In  piteous  accents  mourn 
For  thee  and  food  ;  but  all  are  gone, 
And  thou  art  drifting  on  and  on, 

And  can  no  more  return." 

We  might  almost  have  included  the  stately  heron 
among  the  sea-birds,  for  at  certain  times  it  will  make 
its  way  to  the  sea-shore,  and  set  itself  to  work  in  the 


2  70     Wild  Ducks,    Water- Birds,  Sea- Fowl. 


pools  and  shallows,  just  as  it  would  in  the  inland  waters. 

There  it  may  be  seen,  standing,  as  it  always  does  stand 

when  fishing,  on  one  leg, 
the  other  leg  partially 
drawn  up,  with  its  half- 
foot  long  lance-like  beak, 
so  nicely  notched,  all  ready 
— a  beak  which  it  drives 
right  through  its  prey 
5t  with  the  utmost  precision. 
This  prey  it  tosses  up  and 
then  seizes  in  its  mouth ; 
but  it  has  happened  that 
when  a  heron  struck  an 
eel  and  lifted  it  thus  to 

HKKON. 

swallow   it,   the   eel  was 

quicker  than  it  was,  threw  its  tail  round  the  bird's  neck, 
and  so  held  till  the  heron  died  from  want  of  breath— 
the  head  of  the  eel  having  been  half  gorged,  caused  it 
also  to  die,  and  both  were  found  locked  together.  The 
extensive  draining  of  lands,  and  the  clearing  out  of 
marshy  fens  and  commons,  has  perhaps  had  a  tendency 
in  places  not  far  from  the  sea-shore  to  drive  the  herons 
there.  In  such  districts  they  may  often  be  seen  proceed- 
ing with  swift,  yet  seeming  lazy  easy  flight  sea-wards 
to  find  tit-bits  in  favourite  feeding  grounds. 

The  heron  likes  to  nest  in  fir  trees,  and  when  he  has 
young  ones  he  has  a  very  busy  time  of  it,  and  busiest 
at  the  time  when  other  birds  get  rest,  for  the  young 
herons  get  hungrier  as  night  comes  on ;  and  thus  it  is 
that  more  especially  in  the  spring-time  the  grey  or 
black  and  white  heron,  his  white  breast  most  exposed, 
may  be  seen  like  a  wisp  of  foam  in  the  twilight  in  the 
sheltered  corner  of  pond  or  stream.  He  was  once  of 


The  Heron.  271 


great  account,  for  it  was  a  lordly  sport  to  hunt  the 
heron  with  the  falcon,  as  Mary  Queen  of  Scots  knew 
well ;  and  not  seldom  the  hunted  was  the  victor,  for 
the  heron,  with  its  instinct,  would  make  a  dart  at  the 
falcon's  eyes  and  blind  it. 

Like  the  crow,  in  always  making  at  the  eyes  of  an 
enemy,  the  heron  also  resembles  the  crow  in  its  keen 
eye  for  a  gun.  It  knows  the  difference  between  a  stick 
or  anything  else  held  in  the  hand  and  a  breechloader. 
The  shine  on  the  barrel  from  afar  is  enough,  and  the 
heron  is  off  before  the  sportsman  can  get  aim.  The 
heron  has  some  other  claims  to  notice.  He  is  at  once 
swimmer,  wader,  and  percher.  You  may  see  him 
taking  his  flight  from  the  lonely  pool  and  making 
his  way  on  that  easy  wing  of  his  to  the  distant  fir 
trees,  where,  owing  to  the  fine  instinct  and  the  great 
knack  he  has  in  choosing  his  post,  he  will  perch  so 
that,  large  though  he  be,  you  will  hardly  detect  him  as 
he  rests  quietly  after  his  long  and  patient  labours  at 
pool  or  stream  side. 


XVI. 
ASHESTIEL  AND  SIR   WALTER  SCOTT. 

"  Great  nature  mocks  us  if  the  heart  can  take 
No  tribute  of  high  memory  to  invest 
Her  beauty  with  the  sense  of  love  and  good  : 
I  think  of  one  who  here  did  offering  make 

Of  heart  and  hope — within  whose  gentle  breast 
Stirred  thoughts  for  all  that  moved  to  higher  mood." 

THIS  is  precisely  the  feeling  with  which  we  look  at 
Ashestiel.  It  is  not  by  any  means  the  most  romantic 
and  beautiful  portion  of  the  Tweed.  The  heights  are 
here  too  far  removed  from  the  river,  and  the  banks, 
though  well  wooded,  do  not  rise  to  a  sufficiently  high 
slope,  as  they  do  above  Neidpath  Castle,  for  instance, 
or  below  Peebles.  But  it  is  full  of  association  and 
romantic  interest,  because  it  was  here  that  Sir  Walter 
Scott  for  several  years  found  a  home,  and  spent  a  very 
active  and  interesting  portion  of  his  life.  The  constant 
journeyings  from  Lasswade,  where  he  had  had  a  cottage 
on  a  picturesque  bank  of  the  Esk,  to  discharge  the 
duties  of  the  Sheriffship  of  Selkirkshire,  ran  away  with 
too  much  of  his  time,  and  the  good  folks  of  Selkirkshire 
too,  not  unnaturally,  grudged  so  much  of  the  "  Shirra's" 
presence  to  other  parts,  and  so  he  resolved  to  find  a 
house  within  the  sphere  of  his  judicial  duties. 

On  the  4th  May  1804  we  find  him  writing  thus  to 
his  friend  Ellis  : — 

"  I  have  been  engaged  in  travelling  backwards  and 


Ashestiel. 


273 


forwards  to  Selkirkshire  upon  little  pieces  of  business, 
just  important  enough  to  prevent  my  doing  anything  to 
purpose.  One  great  matter,  however,  I  have  achieved, 
which  is  procuring  myself  a  place  of  residence,  which 
will  save  me  these  teasing  migrations  in  future,  so  that 
though  I  part  with  my  sweet  little  cottage  on  the  banks 
of  the  Esk,  you  will  find  me  this  summer  in  the  very 
centre  of  the  ancient  Reged,  in  a  decent  farm-house 


E.E. 


overhanging  the  Tweed,  and  situated  in  a  wild  pastoral 
country." 

Could  a  more  desirable  residence  have  been  found 
for -the  Magician  of  the  North  ?  Within  sound  of  the 
romantic  Tweed,  with  its  scores  of  ballads  and  legends  ; 
with  its  beautiful  and  suggestive  associations,  and  its 
health-giving  air.  The  house  in  which  Scott  lived  is 
approached  through  an  old-fashioned  garden,  with  holly 
hedges  and  broad  green  terraced  walks.  Close  under 
the  windows,  on  the  one  side,  is  a  deep  ravine,  well 

S 


'274       Ashestiel  and  Sir  Walter  Scott. 


wooded,  and  down  this  tumbles  a  little  brawling  rivulet 
to  join  the  Tweed.  All  around  are  the  green  hills, 
silent,  reposeful,  looking  from  the  level  like  a  billowy 
sea.  The  hill  heights  behind  are  those  that  separate 
the  Yarrow  from  Tweed,  the  former  stream  being 
within  an  easy  ride  of  Ashestiel — a  ride  on  which  some 
of  the  finest  and  most  romantic  mountain  scenery  is  to 
be  seen. 

It  was  here  that  Scott  wrote  "  Waverley "  and 
"  Marmion ; "  here  that  he  corrected  the  proofs  of  the 
"Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel;"  here  that  "  Rokeby " 
was  begun,  and  "Dryden"  arid  "  Swift,"  in  his  Edition 
of  the  Poets  were  prepared ;  and  here  too  that  he  fully 
learned  the  difference  between  "long  sheep"  and 
"short  sheep" — on  which  distinction  a  fine  joke  is 
founded,  for  on  a  native  being  asked  what  a  "long 
sheep"  must  measure  in  body  beyond  a  "  short  sheep," 
was  told,  "  Weel,  it's  no'  that  ava',  ye  ken',  it's  a'  i'  the 
oo',"  the  contrast  really  being  between  the  length  of  the 
wool  in  the  Cheviot  and  the  native  breed. 

But  Scott's  life  was  never  that  of  the  literary  recluse, 
of  the  absorbed  student  or  antiquary.  The  claims  of 
human  nature  were  too  strong.  Lockhart  tells  us  that 
Camp — his  favourite  dog  then,  and  the  predecessor  of 
the  more  famous  Maida — and  the  children  had  free 
access  to  his  study  at  all  times ;  that  the  "  bairns " 
would  often  intrude  and  interrupt  him  in  the  midst  of  a 
sentence,  and  demand  that  he  should  tell  them  a  story, 
when  he  would  invariably  take  them  on  his  knees  and 
comply,  always  giving  them  more  than  they  had  asked; 
and  often,  too,  they  would  tempt  him  out  to  wander 
with  them  in  the  garden  or  by  the  stream  side,  or  even 
further  a-field,  Camp  bounding  before  or  trotting  dis- 
creetly at  their  heels. 


The  "Flitting:'  275 

At  first  Scott  was  fain  to  be  his  own  coachman,  and 
to  drive  Mrs.  Scott  about  the  district ;  but  he  was  so 
awkward  in  this  bit  of  business,  we  learn,  that  more 
than  once  he  put  his  wife  in  jeopardy  through  the 
threatened  overturn  of  the  little  phaeton,  and  a  coach- 
man— a  relative  of  Tom  Purdie,  his  trusty  servant — 
was  engaged.  Often,  no  doubt,  he  walked  or  drove 
over  that  bridge  we  see  in  the  picture  that  lay,  indeed, 
on  the  direct  way  to  his  house  from  important  points, 
and  delighted  in  the  view  from  it  up  the  water  when 
the  sun  shone  bright  upon  it. 

Here,  James  Hogg,  rapidly  rising  into  fame,  visited 
the  "  Shirra,"  and  not  a  few  other  men  of  note. 

His  lease  ran  out  in  1811,  and  then  he  was  some- 
what uncomfortable ;  and  as  he  was  now  in  a  position 
to  buy  a  house,  we  find  him  writing — 

"  I  now  sit  a  tenant  at  will,  under  a  heavy  rent,  and 
at  all  the  inconvenience  of  one  when  in  the  house  of 
another ;  I  have,  therefore,  resolved  to  purchase  a  piece 
of  ground  sufficient  for  a  cottage  and  a  few  fields." 

After  looking  at  various  places,  he  fixed  on  a  small 
estate  at  Abbotsford,  where  by-and-by  the  stately 
mansion  arose  which  is  so  associated  with  his  name ; 
but  it  was  not  so  far  distant  from  Ashestiel  but  that 
the  removal  was  accompanied  with  little  pictures  and 
associations  which  must  have  been  dear  to  the  heart  of 
Scott,  and  often  recalled  by  him  and  talked  of  by  him 
and*  his. 

The  "flitting"  from  Ashestiel,  we  read,  "though  so 
full  of  delight  and  pride  to  themselves,  was  a  sad  one 
for  the  poorer  neighbours  they  left  behind  them,  for 
they  had  been  the  kindest  of  friends  to  all  whom 
poverty  or  sickness  reduced  to  need  aid  or  counsel,  Mrs. 
Scott  having  even  some  knowledge  of  the  treatment 


2j6       Ashestiel  and  Sir  Walter  Scott. 

required  for  ordinary  ailments,  so  that  she  had  been  a 
Lady  Bountiful  of  the  most  useful  kind  ;  and  the  sorrow 
of  the  peasantry  of  the  village  was  universal,  though 
to  the  younger  portion  of  it,  this  was  relieved  by  the 
amusement  caused  by  "  the  procession  of  the  furniture 
from  the  old  to  the  new  dwelling.  Old  swords,  bows, 
targets,  and  lances,  made  a  very  conspicuous  show. 
A  family  of  turkeys  was  accommodated  within  the 
helmet  of  some/m/.*-  chevalier  of  ancient  Border  fame  ; 
and  the  caravan,  attended  by  a  dozen  rosy  peasant 
children,  carrying  fishing-rods  and  spears,  and  leading 
ponies,  greyhounds,  and  spaniels,  would,  as  it  crossed 
the  Tweed,  have  formed  no  bad  subject  for  the  pencil, 
and  really  reminded  one  of  the  gipsy  groups  of  Callot 
on  their  march." 

Lockhart  says  that  he  retained  to  the  end  of  his  life 
a  certain  tenderness  of  feeling  towards  Ashestiel,  which 
could  not  perhaps  be  better  shadowed  forth  than  in 
Joanna  Baillie's  similitude :  "  Yourself  and  Mrs.  Scott 
and  the  children  will  feel  sorry  at  leaving  Ashestiel. 
which  will  long  have  a  consequence,  and  be  the  object 
of  kind  feelings  with  many,  from  having  once  been  the 
place  of  your  residence.  If  I  should  ever  be  happy 
enough  to  be  at  Abbotsford,  you  must  take  me  to  see 
Ashestiel  too.  I  have  a  kind  of  tenderness  for  it,  as 
one  has  for  a  man's  first  wife  when  you  hear  that  he 
has  married  a  second." 


XVII. 
IN  DURHAM  AND  NEAR  IT. 

DURHAM  city  stands  on  the  line  between  north  and 
south,  and  is,  as  it  were,  the  key  and  entrance  to  the 
debatable  land.  Even  its  present-day  outward  aspect 
suggests  the  fact.  It  is  a  city  of  heights  and  valleys, 
beautifully  relieved  by  unconscious  devices  of  old-world 
architecture,  in  which  quaint  simplicity  and  suggestions 
of  refinement  are  oddly  mingled.  Its  mixture  of  grey 
stone  houses,  with  here  and  there  lath  and  plaster  fronts 
and  wooden  carvings  below;  its  long  closes,  and  its 
strange  winding  vagaries  of  lanes  and  streets ;  its 
modern  shop  fronts  and  ornamented  old  pillars  and 
balustrades,  is  quaint  and  wholly  striking  to  the  tra- 
veller, either  from  the  south  or  the  north.  The  beautiful 
and  picturesque  river,  with  its  sloping  banks  rising  high 
just  where  they  should,  to  set  off  fully  the  Cathedral 
and  the  Castle  with  the  finest  effect,  adds  exactly  the 
romantic  effect  that  is  demanded. 

From  whatever  point  you  look,  you  have  varied  out- 
lines, towers,  or  turrets  rising  high,  and  forming  a  kind 
of  crown  to  the  whole.  No  doubt,  like  all  old  towns, 
Durham  has  its  share  of  dirty  corners,  but  it  is  ill  the 
part  of  the  stranger  to  go  poking  and  nosing  about  for 
them.  We  were  in  this  but  too  like  the  ill-disposed 
critic  who,  seeking  for  little  faults  or  flaws,  is  sure  to 

find  them,  and,  having  found  them,  can  then  see  nothing 

277 


278 


In  -Durham  and  near  it. 


else.  No,  we  shall  not  here  follow  his  example,  but, 
in  the  clear  brightness  of  the  spring  morning,  take  our 
reader  by  the  hand  and  lead  him  along  for  a  general 
view  of  Durham  city. 


DURHAM  CATHEDRAL. 


As  we  pass  from  the  railway  station  down  by  North 
Road,  &c.,  to  the  bridge,  the  city  is  just  awakening. 
A  keen  air  blows  through  the  winding  streets,  and  a 


Duri'iam  CatJiedral.  279 

faint  morning  light  catches  the  highest  towers  of  the 
Cathedral,  and  runs  a  ribbon  of  white  round  the  grey 
rugged  high  lines  of  the  Castle  walls  and  turrets.  We 
pass  on  and  on  over  the  Bridge,  and  look  up  the  river,  to 
hear  it — yes,  we  can  in  the  comparative  silence  almost 
hear  it — rushing  over  yonder  weir  by  the  mill,  and 
then  come  purling  onward,  as  the  trees  by  its  borders 
on  the  left  faintly  outline  themselves  in  the  water.  Up 
and  up  we  then  ascend  the  climbing  street  before  us, 
round  by  the  Market  Square,  with  its  two  quaint 
statues,  and  round  again  we  turn  and  make  our  way 
to  the  Cathedral,  and  walk  about  it.  None  of  the  good 
folks  in  the  precincts  are  yet  astir ;  but  a  dog  has  found 
its  way  out,  and  comes  and  sniffs  suspiciously  at  us 
strangers,  and  then  goes  off,  surly  and  dissatisfied 
and  doubtful,  to  inform  his  master  of  our  intrusion,  for 
he  scrapes  at  one  of  the  doors.  Even  the  dogs  in 
Cathedral  precincts  take  on  a  kind  of  stiff  self-restraint 
and  official  wariness.  The  rooks  and  jackdaws  are 
busy  at  their  nest-buildings,  and  caw  and  chatter  in 
the  oddest  manner  among  the  trees  and  shrubs  about. 

We  walk  from  point  to  point,  gathering  quite  a  new 
idea  of  the  extent  of  this  reverend  old  structure,  with 
its  great  central  tower,  and  its  unique  twin-pair  of 
towers  almost  overhanging  the  river,  and  its  tapering 
turrets  at  the  other  end.  We  pause  and  admire  their 
admirable  pose,  so  striking  near  at  hand,  so  insignifi- 
cant seen  from  afar,  dwarfed  entirely  by  their  greater 
brethren.  Then  we  go  and  look,  and  are  lost  in  admi- 
ration of  the  fine  Catherine  or  wheel-window.  The 
masons  are  at  work  at  this  side  of  the  fabric,  for  there 
is  weathering  in  this  fine  pile,  and  stones  are  being  cut 
to  replace  those  that  are  here  hopelessly  wasted. 

We    might    tell    much    of  the    history    of   this    old 


280  Jn  Durham  and  near  it. 

edifice  :  how  Carileph  founded  it  so  early  as  1093,  but 
did  not  finish  more  than  one  half  of  it,  as  we  now  see 
it ;  how  the  transepts,  the  greater  part  of  the  nave,  the 
Lady  Chapel  at  the  west  end,  and  the  Nine  Altars  at  the 
other,  were  the  work  of  later  days — how  Flambard  and 
Pudsey  laboured  to  extend  and  beautify ;  how  the  choir 
was  vaulted  by  Prior  Hoton  (1283),  and  the  aisles  by 
Prior  Algar  earlier  still  (1100-37),  how  the  great  west 
doorway,  with  its  medallions  and  grotesque  devices, 
was  gifted  by  Bishop  Rufus,  and  how  the  wonderful 
Catherine  window  and  the  famous  screen  were  added. 
But  these  things  can  all  be  read  in  the  guide-books, 
especially  in  the  cheap  and  handy  guide-book  of  Mr. 
J.  H.  Veitch  in  North  Road,  with  full  relay  of  facts 
such  as  we  need  not  dwell  on,  our  business  being 
confined,  as  our  space  demands  it  should  be,  to  giving 
merely  general  impressions. 

We  therefore  turn  down  the  South  Bailey,  with  its 
many  quaint  but  powerful  reminders  of  olden  times, 
and  find  our  way  to  the  river  banks.  There  modern 
improvement  has  indeed  made  a  garden.  The  slopes 
are  umbrageous  with  trees  of  many  kinds ;  the  walks, 
well  laid  out,  are  liberally  supplied  with  seats  where 
the  wanderer  may  rest  and  be  thankful,  and  listen  to 
the  birds  sending  forth  as  varied  and  sweet  a  concert 
as  could  be  heard  in  the  deepest  recesses  of  many 
remote  woods.  The  sense  of  quiet  and  retirement  is 
such  as  could  not  be  realised  in  many  cities.  As  you 
sit  and  look  up,  you  cannot  but  be  struck  by  the 
great  height  to  which  the  Cathedral  towers  rise  above 
the  level  of  the  river;  and,  as  the  eye  runs  along, 
following  the  lines  of  the  castle  heights,  this  is  still 
more  impressed  upon  you;  you  feel  that  Durham  is 
in  its  own  way  unique.  You  may  visit  the  University 


Walks  near  Durham.  281 

and  rejoice  in  its  wealth,  the  richness  of  the  museum, 
and  the  quiet  of  its  halls  ;  you  may  admire  this  and 
that  in  some  of  the  city  churches ;  you  may  find  much 
that  is  quaint  in  the  Grammar  School  and  the  Blue 
Coat  School  and  the  Old  Exchequer,  and  much  to 
interest  you  in  the  wealth  of  picture  and  carving  in 
the  Town  Hall  and  the  Guild  Hall,  but  your  mind  will 
return  to  the  first  view  you  had  of  the  Cathedral  and 
the  Castle,  and  the  impression  you  gathered  on  your 
first  walk  on  the  leafy  terraced  slopes  of  the  river  banks 
below  them. 

One  building,  for  personal  reasons  more  than  aught 
else,  particularly  attracted  our  attention.  It  is  the 
Durham  Miners'  Hall  in  North  Road — a  solid  and 
unpretending  building,  entered  by  a  wide  doorway 
leading  to  a  broad  staircase.  In  front  are  impressive 
white  marble  statues  of  two  leaders  of  the  Durham 
miners,  that  of  Alexander  MacDonald,  M.P.,  and 
William  Crawford. 

On  making  inquiries,  we  were  told  that  here  and 
there  considerable  portions  of  the  old  city  wall  still 
remain ;  and  we  lost  no  time  in  making  our  way  to  see 
them.  Our  engraving  gives  a  very  good  idea  of  one 
of  the  most  important  portions  which  still  remain  to 
show  the  solid  masonry  by  which  the  city  was  at  one 
time  surrounded. 

There  are  three  very  delightful  walks  near  Durham, 
which  the  visitor  on  no  account  should  miss.  The  first 
is  that  to  Brancepeth  Castle,  the  second  to  Finchale 
Priory,  and  the  third  to  Sunderland  Bridge.  Of  course 
there  are  many  more,  as  to  Langley  Old  Hall,  Butterby, 
and  Maiden  Castle  Scar ;  but  the  three  first  named  most 
interested  us,  as  we  most  enjoyed  them.  It  is  not  only 
what  is  found  at  the  end  of  the  journey,  but  what  the 


282 


In   Durham  and  near'  it. 


road  itself  supplies,  that  is  here  enchanting !  The  road 
to  Brancepeth  winds  in  the  most  delightful  way;  now 
you  are  almost  closed  in  by  woods  and  gentle  heights, 
and  again  you  emerge  to  enjoy  the  most  exquisite 
glimpses  of  distant  hills  with  fringes  of  wood,  and  at 


length  when  a  view  of  the  castle,  which  so  finely  com- 
bines the  old  and  the  new,  bursts  full  upon  you,  you 
feel  that  it  is  a  fitting  finale  to  your  ramble.  Like  a 
true  poem,  the  last  lines  crown  the  whole.  It  is  finely 
castellated  with  six  great  towers,  two  of  which — those 


Finchale  Priory.  283 

on  the  west  and  south  side — are  of  ancient  construc- 
tion, the  projecting  buttresses  gradually  emerging  and 
impressing  themselves  on  the  eye,  and  breaking  the 
lines  with  fine  effect.  The  restorations,  carried  out  by 
Mr.  John  Patterson  of  Edinburgh,  and  finished  in  1818, 
were  in  the  fullest  degree  possible  in  the  spirit  of  the 
original  portion ;  and  the  whole  is  in  the  highest  degree 
imposing.  Walls  and  turrets  relieve  each  other  along 
each  side,  and  enclose  a  spacious  courtyard,  which  is 
entered  at  the  north-east  angle  by  a  Norman  gateway 
with  a  portcullis,  and  flanked  by  rounded  towers.  We 
can  well  believe  what  is  said,  that  it  is  superior  to  any 
other  battlemented  edifice  in  the  north  of  England.  The 
parts  now  inhabited  lie  on  the  south-west  side,  and  rise 
from  a  high  rock.  Inside  the  castle  there  is  much  to 
interest  the  visitor,  alike  in  the  way  of  ancient  armour 
and  splendid  pictures,  besides  some  fine  remains  of  old 
work  in  groined  ceilings,  and  so  forth ;  and  the  stately 
entrance  hall  is  filled  up  with  massive  oaken  seats  with 
strong  arms  which  terminate  in  boars'  heads,  delight- 
fully carved.  And  for  the  lover  of  antiquities,  there  is 
much  to  attract,  both  within  and  without  the  castle,  which 
is  surrounded  by  a  splendid  park  and  gardens,  where 
days  might  be  spent  both  profitably  and  pleasantly. 

To  reach  Finchale  Priory,  the  best  way  is  to  go  by 
foot-road  through  Frankland  and  Brasside  Moor.  The 
scenery,  if  not  very  romantic  or  striking,  is  varied  and 
interesting  ;  and  the  more  distant  views,  in  many  cases, 
are  fine.  It  is  with  a  sense  of  surprise  that,  after  some 
windings,  a  view  of  the  Priory  is  suddenly  gained  lying 
half-hidden  in  a  lovely  dell — the  Wear  here  sweeping 
boldly  round  and  forming,  as  it  were,  a  little  peninsula 
on  which  the  Priory  stands  ;  the  high  cliffs  of  Cocken 
rising  almost  opposite,  with  no  little  grandeur,  and  giving 


284  In  Durham  and  near  it. 

effect  and  picturesqueness.  The  ruins  are  now  in  many 
places  ivy-grown,  but  are  everywhere  touched  as  with 
the  finger  of  romance  and  tradition,  interesting,  as  Mr. 
W.  S.  Gibson  says,  "  to  the  architect  no  less  than  to  the 
antiquary,  and  the  more  so,  because  there  is  not  another 
building  of  decorated  work  worthy  of  note  in  the  county 
of  Durham.  Indeed,  there  are  few  specimens  of  it  as 
added  to  buildings  of  an  earlier  period  in  this  part  of 
Old  Northumbria,  owing  perhaps  to  the  incessant  wars 
between  England  and  Scotland,  in  the  age  when  the 
decorated  style  prevailed  in  this  country,  and  to  the 
active  part  which  the  ecclesiastical  princes  palatine  of 
Durham,  and  their  obedientaries  and  vassals,  monastical 
as  well  as  lay,  were  obliged  to  take  in  these  desolating 
contests.  Unpeopled  and  desecrated  for  three  centuries, 
time  has  spread  over  the  chief  portions  of  these  grey 
walls  a  mantle  of  venerable  and  luxuriant  ivy,  whose 
roots  entwine  about  the  foundations,  and  whose  branches 
have  penetrated  the  interstices  of  the  masonry,  rearing 
their  perennial  foliage  where  all  beside  is  crumbling  to 
ruin." 

Once  well  clear  of  the  town,  the  road  to  Sunderland 
Bridle  is  delightful,  quietly  picturesque,  with  the  sweet 
relief  of  strips  of  wood  here  and  there  on  the  right, 
running  along  its  borders,  with  fine  specimens  of  birch 
and  beech  and  fir  interlacing  their  branches.  At  the 
time  we  last  journeyed  o'er  it  (April,  1 893),  the  larks 
in  the  fields  on  the  left  were  rising,  circling  upwards, 
making  the  air  vocal  with  their  sweet  and  unceasing 
song ;  the  lapwings  circled  round,  their  crests  just 
beginning  to  be  brightened  with  tufts  of  deeper  colour, 
and  uttering  their  familiar  cry,  pees-weet,  pees-weet ; 
and  blackbirds  and  thrushes  were  very  busy  near  to 
the  more  wooded  and  cultured  policies  that  led  up  to 


Sunderland  Bridge.  287 

the  seats  of  the  landed  gentry.  The  hands  of  men,  at 
all  events  of  all  fruit-cultivating  men,  are  against  this 
brotherhood;  yet  they  survive,  insist  on  being  his  neigh- 
bours, and  fain  would  conciliate  him  by  the  sweetest 
of  songs  at  mid-day,  and  at  eventide,  after  most  other 
day  songsters  have  ceased  their  song. 

Sunderland  Bridge  is  one  of  those  old-fashioned 
structures,  with  angular  recesses  at  its  sides,  V-shaped  ; 
and  when  anything  is  going  on,  parties  of  anglers 
starting  up  the  stream  for  instance,  each  of  these  at 
the  sharp  point  will  be  found  occupied  by  an  interested 
rural  spectator,  unwilling  that  anything  should  escape 
him.  And  often  there  is  a  good  deal  going  on  here, 
for  it  is  a  very  favourite  spot  for  parties  of  anglers 
making  a  start  for  fishing  on  the  Wear.  And  no 
wonder.  You  have  only  to  pause  for  a  moment,  like 
the  rustics,  and  lean  over  at  the  sharp  point  of  one  of 
these  angular  recesses,  and  you  will  get  assurance  of 
this.  Just  below  the  bridge  the  water  passes  foaming 
over  and  between  the  breaks  of  a  high  strata  of  big 
flat  boulders,  and  then  trots  smartly  down  into  a  fine 
pool  where  big  fish  must  sometimes  lie.  Immediately 
above  the  bridge  is  the  spacious  railway  viaduct,  with 
many  spans. 

At  the  furthest  end  of  the  bridge  on  the  height  is 
the  village  of  Sunderland  Bridge,  with  its  church  so 
nicely  and  picturesquely  set  on  the  hill  amid  its  screen 
of  trees,  like  a  picture.  We  may  note,  in  passing,  that 
the  houses  represented  in  our  illustration  are  not  in 
Sunderland  Bridge  village  at  all,  but  are  really  in 
Spitz  Hall  parish ;  but  that  will  not  probably  be  of 
much  consequence  or  interest  to  the  traveller,  who  will 
be  more  concerned  to  know  that  Mrs.  Mortimer  at  the 
Inn,  whose  signboard  you  see  in  the  print,  can  supply 


288  In  Durham  and  near  it. 


really  sound  refreshments,  and  is  in  every  way  a  good 
and  honest  hostess. 

A  little  further  on  is  Croxdale,  where  there  is  a 
station  on  the  Darlington  and  Durham  Railway,  and 
by  this  the  pilgrim,  should  he  feel  wearied  or  footsore, 
can  do,  as  we  did,  though  not  weary  or  footsore,  but 
only  pressed  for  time  on  that  last  visit,  take  the  train, 
and  either  return  to  Durham  or  go  to  Darlington  as  he 
may  be  inclined. 


XVIII. 
IN  COQUETDALE. 

THE  Coquet  has  been  so  often  celebrated  alike  for  its 
picturesque  and  varied  scenery  and  its  "  wale  o'  trout/' 
that  it  may  seem  somewhat  late  in  the  day  to  deal  with 
it  as  we  now  propose  to  do.  But,  after  all,  it  is  not 
yet  so  well  known  to  general  readers,  at  all  events 
in  the  south,  as  it  deserves  to  be,  and  the  hope  of 
interesting  them  and  sending  some  of  them  to  see  it 
is  our  justification.  Scenery  in  which  the  wild  and 
romantic  is  at  parts  mingled  with  the  sweetly  sylvan 
and  pastoral  may  be  found  in  Coquetdale  in  almost  as 
striking  a  measure  as  on  some  of  the  favourite  streams 
of  Scotland.  Many  who  rush  past  it,  and  thus  reduce 
the  time  they  have  for  enjoyment  on  the  hills  in  the 
open  air,  might  pause,  and  find  the  Highlands  nearer 
home  than  in  the  north  and  west  of  Scotland.  And 
this  we  say  though,  as  the  reader  %  knows  from  what 
we  have  already  written,  we  are  bound  to  Scotland  by 
the  nearest  and  dearest  ties.  But  many  might  comfort- 
ably reach  the  Coquet  and  enjoy  a  few  days  there  who 
would  not  for  the  short  time  they  have  at  their  disposal 
think  of  going  so  far  afield  as  Deeside  or  Inverness  or 
Argyleshire. 

Well,  then,  let  us  start  on  our  journey.  We  might 
spend  a  good  while  in  tracing  the  Coquet  from  its  rise 
in  the  Cheviot  Hills,  clearing  its  way  "  through  moors 


290  In   Coquet  dale. 


and  mosses  many,"  now  spreading  out  into  gentle  pools, 
and  again  leaping  through  narrow  gorges,  and  in  des- 
canting on  the  beauties  of  the  many  tributaries  that 
come  tumbling  down  the  little  glens  and  hillsides  and 
go  to  swell  its  current ;  but  beyond  Rothbury  there  is 
no  railway,  and  the  numbers  who  would  adventure  far 
up  are  limited  to  the  more  leisured  persons,  fond  of 
novelty,  and  enthusiastic  fishermen,  and,  it  may  be,  an 
artist  or  two  in  search  of  remote  nooks  and  wild 
romantic  corners  that  will  suggest  striking  pictures. 
Rothbury  lies  on  the  side  of  a  hill,  just  where  the 
Coquet  makes  one  of  his  finest  sweeps,  and  is  in  its  own 
way  unique.  It  is  the  capital  of  Coquet-land,  and  is 
indeed  like  one  who  lifts  up  his  head  proudly  and  looks 
pleased  over  the  fair  and  romantic  lands  he  owns.  It 
is  far  from  being  a  dull  or  stupid  place.  There  is  a 
good  deal  of  life  in  it.  I  learned  that  there  were 
several  societies,  though  with  regret  I  heard  that  a  golf 
club  lately  formed  had  not  been  a  great  success.  The 
church  is  a  fine  structure,  and  the  hotels  are  good. 
Personally  we  found  the  Queen's  Head  attractive,  and 
Mr.  Lawson  an  admirable  and  hearty  host.  Many 
delightful  drives  may  be  had  within  an  easy  distance, 
the  most  exquisite  of  which  is  perhaps  that  to  Simon- 
side  and  Great  To^son. 

All  the  country  round  is  rich  in  springs — some 
of  them  chalybeate,  some  of  them  sulphur,  and 
others  iron.  All  the  country  round  Rothbury,  too, 
is  rich  in  antiquarian  remains — British  dwellings, 
Roman  causeways,  peel  (or  pil)  towers,  ruins  of 
camps  and  fortresses,  telling  how  the  waves  of  Border 
invasion  swept  on  and  retreated  and  swept  on  again. 
Mr.  Dixon  quotes  a  song  composed  by  a  Newcastle 
gentleman  well  known  in  Coquetdale,  as  spirited  as  it 


"Hot  Trod."  291 


is  faithful  to  fact  and  the  feelings  of  those  into  whose 
mouth  it  is  put  :— 

"  Waes  me  I— God  wot, 

But  the  beggarlie  Scot 
Through  the  'bateable  land  has  prickit  his  way, 

An'  ravaged  wi'  fire 

Peel,  haudin',  an'  byre, 

Our  nowte,  sheep,  and  galloways  a'  taen  awae  ; 
But  by  hagbut  an'  sword,  ere  he's  back  owre  the  Border, 
We'll  be  net  on  his  trod,  an'  aye  set  him  in  order. 

Nae  bastles  or  peels 

Are  safe  frae  the  deils, 
Gin  the  collies  be  oot  or  the  lairds  awae  ; 

The  bit  bairnies  an'  wives 

Gang  i'  dreed  o'  their  lives, 

For  they  scumfish  them  oot  wi'  the  smoutherin'  strae. 
Then — spear  up  the  lowe — ca'  oor  lads  thegither, 
An'  we'll  follow  them  hot  trod  owre  the  heather. 

Weel  graith'd,  sair  on  metal, 

Oor  harness  in  fettle, 
The  reivers  we  sicht  far  ayont  the  wa', 

Gin  we  bring  them  to  bay, 

Nae  saufey  we'll  pay. 

We'll  fangit,  syne  bang  it— we'se  see  them  a'  ; 
Then  on,  lads,  on— for  the  trod  is  hot, 
As  oot  ower  the  heather  we  prod  the  Scot. 

We'll  harass  them  sairly, 

Nae  hoo  gie  for  parley. 
Noo  the  spurs  i'  the  dish  for  their  hungrie  wames, 

Do  your  slogans  gie  mouth, 

An'  we'll  sune  lead  them  south. 

Grarnerce — gin  we  cross  them,  we'll  crap  their  kames 
Then— keep  the  lowe  bleezin',  lads— ca'  to  the  fray, 
Syne  we're  up  wi'  the  lifters  we'll  gar  them  pay. 

Fae  to  fae — steel  to  steel ; 
Noo  the  donnert  loons  reel, 
An'  caitiffs  cry  '  Hoo  ! '  but  it's  a'  in  vain  : 


292  In  Coquet  dale. 


See  a  clatter  o'  thwacks 

Fa's  on  sallets  an'  jacks. 
Till  we've  lifted  the  lifters  as  weel  as  oor  ain, 
Then  wi'  fyce  to  the  crupper  they'll  ride  a  gaie  mile 
To  their  dance  frae  the  Wuddie  at  merrie  Carlisle." 

In  the  Jacobite  risings  of  1715  and  1745  Coquetdale 
had  its  own  part,  and  the  distress  and  disturbance 
experienced  by  the  good  folks  there  are  commemorated 
in  these  lines,  often  heard  by  Mr.  Dixon  on  Coquet 
Water — lines  which  wonderfully  recall  one  of  Mr. 
Allingham's  fine  poems,  if  not  indeed,  the  finest  of  his 
shorter  poems : — 

"Up  the  craggy  mountain, 

An'  doun  the  mossy  glen, 
We  daurna  gan'  a-milkin' 
For  Charlie  an'  his  men." 

Rothbury  contains  between  800  and  900  inhabitants, 
and  is  mainly  limited  to  three  streets — the  Front  or 
High  Street  (the  longest),  and  Bridge  Street  and  Church 
Street. 

We  learn  from  Mr.  Tomlinson  that  the  name  of 
Rothbury  is  supposed  by  some  to  be  derived  from  the 
Celtic  word  rhatli,  meaning  a  cleared  spot.  If  any 
weight  is  to  be  laid  on  the  old  rhyme  which  we  owe  to 
Mr.  D.  D.  Dixon,  it  is  clear  that  Rothbury  in  old  times 
largely  put  the  wild  heights  about  it,  unfit  for  other 
use,  to  the  rearing  of  goats,  as  did  many  other  places 
in  Northumberland  :— 

"  Rothbury  for  goats'  milk, 

The  Cheviots  for  mutton  ; 
Cheswick  for  its  cheese  and  bread, 
And  Tynemouth  for  a  glutton." 

But  our  plan,  having  seen  Rothbury  and  neighbour- 


Rothbury. 


293 


hood,  was  to  drive  down  the  thirteen  miles  to  Ack- 
lington,  there  get  on  the  train  to  Warkworth;  and 
spend  a  little  time  at  Coquet  mouth. 

Nothing  could  be  finer  than  the  views  that  unfolded 
themselves  just  as  we  turned  out  of  Rothbury.  Our 
road  lay  as  if  on  an  upper  shelf  on  a  high  rocky  slope, 
above  us  still  rough  heathery  hills,  and  below  the 
glancing  glistening  river.  Soon  the  rocks  below 


THRUM   MILL. 


seemed  to  close  into  a  ravine,  where  the  water  nar- 
rowed and  deepened  into  a  kind  of  gully,  and  forced 
its  way  with  foam  and  noise  through  barriers  of  rock. 
This  is  what  is  called  the  Thrum,  and  the  Thrum  Mill 
is  close  beside  it,  one  of  the  most  striking  bits  of 
scenery  on  this  part.  A  footpath  leads  along  from 
Rothbury  to  the  Thrum  Mill,  a  favourite  resort  of  the 
visitors  who  in  summer  come  to  Rothbury,  and  here 


294  In  Coqiietdale. 


find  welcome  change.  Mr.  James  Ferguson  of  Mor- 
peth  has  given  us  the  following  about  the  Thrum  :— 

"  About  a  mile  below  Rothbury,  at  the  Thrum  Mill, 
the  river  yields  a  little  snatch  of  bold  and  romantic 
scenery.  There,  in  earlier  times,  the  pent-up  waters 
had  to  force  their  way  through  a  barrier  of  sandstone ; 
and  the  river  is  at  the  present  time  showing  how  it 
was  done,  for  at  one  point  the  entire  body  of  water 
forces  its  way  in  a  serpentine  course  between  rocks  so 
close  that  a  steady  brain  and  sure  foot  can  step  across, 
but  not  without  risk,  which  should  not  be  lightly  taken, 
for  it  is  evident  that,  beneath,  the  rocks  must  be  scooped 
and  grooved  out  into  huge  tunnels  and  dark  recesses 
from  which  escape  would  be  impossible.  Here  the 
southern  bank  is  an  almost  perpendicular  face  of 
rugged  rocks,  festooned  and  wreathed  with  the  foliage 
of  nature-planted  bushes,  and  crowned  with  stately 
trees." 

In  one  of  Wilson's  "  Tales  of  the  Borders,"  Willie 
Faa,  the  gipsy  king,  is  represented  as  leaping  across 
the  Thrum  with  the  stolen  heir  of  Clennel  Castle,  and 
leaving  his  pursuers  behind. 

In  old  days  it  is  said  that  much  poaching  was 
practised  here.  Mr.  D.  D.  Dixon,  whose  art  it  is  to 
combine  business  with  pleasure,  and  delights  to  gather 
up  the  folklore,  old  traditions,  and  local  tales  as  he 
goes  his  rounds,  never  failing  to  furnish  us  with  new 
and  racy  material,  has  some  little  records  which  abun- 
dantly prove  that  the  practice  has  not  yet  been  discon- 
tinued. And  despite  the  custom  so  long  carried  on,  it 
is  apparently  profitable  enough  to  entice  men  to  the 
adventure,  even  if  the  Coquet  is  not  so  rich  in  fish  as 
it  once  was,  at  all  events,  according  to  this  report : — 

"Talk  o'  fishin',"  said  an  old  Coquet  angler,  " there's 


Halcyon  Days.  295 

no  sic  fishen'  in  Coquet  now  as  when  I  was  a  lad.  It 
was  nowte  then  but  to  fling  in  and  pull  out  by  tweeses 
an'  threeses  if  ye  had  sae  mony  heuks  on,  but  now  a 
body  may  keep  threshin'  at  the  water  a'  day  atween 
Hallysteun  an'  Weldon  an'  hardly  catch  three  dozen, 
an'  money  a  time  no  that.  Aboot  fifty  years  syne  I 
mind  o'  seein'  trouts  that  thick  i'  the  Thrum  below 
Rothbury  that  if  ye  had  stucken  the  end  o'  yor  gad 
into  the  watter  amang  them  it  wud  amaist  hae  studden 
upreet."* 

These  halcyon  days,  if  they  ever  existed,  have 
gone,  never  to  return,  but  still  poaching  in  Coquetdale 
is  not  a  lost  art.  Gangs  of  men  work  the  torches 
and  the  leisters,  while  those  who  like  to  be  solitary 
prefer  to  work  the  gaff  or  the  cleek.  Mr.  Dixon,  in 
his  account  of  salmon  poaching,  gives  this  incident : — 

"  One  dark  November  night  about  eight  o'clock,  a 
few  years  ago,  I  was  returning  home  from  the  country, 
when,  walking  along  the  highway,  a  few  miles  from 
Rothbury,  I  heard,  but  could  not  see,  that  some  one 
was  approaching ;  suddenly,  with  a  bang  and  a  rattle, 
something  was  thrown  into  the  roadside  ditch ;  then  I 
saw  a  form  looming  through  the  darkness.  According 
to  the  fashion  of  us  country  folk,  I  shouted,  '  It's  a  dark 
night ; '  immediately  the  well-known  voice  of  a  country- 
man (who  lived  close  by)  replied,  '  Oh  !  that's  ye,  Mr. 
Dixon,  aa'  thought  ye  war  somebody  else :  wait  a  bit, 
or  aa'  git  thor  things  oot  the  dykeside.'  Thereupon, 
after  grappling  about  in  the  dark,  he  produced  a  lantern, 
a  salmon  gaff,  and  a  poke :  shouldering  these  imple- 
ments, we  went  chatting  along  the  road  together  until 
we  came  to  a  small  burn — a  tributary  of  the  Coquet — 
the  spot  where  my  poaching  friend  was  '  gan  te  try  for 

*   "  Rambles  in  Northumberland,3'  by  .Stephen  Oliver,  the  younger. 


296  In  Coquet  dale. 


a'  fish ; '  here  I  left  him,  as  I  did  not  care  to  be  mixed 
up  in  a  poaching  expedition." 

Mr.  Dixon  also  tells  that  the  gangs  for  leistering 
were  fond  of  adopting  disguises  to  aid  them  against 
the  water-watchers,  and  he  gives  this  little  bit  of  char- 
acter and  humour  in  illustration  :— 

"  Some  had  their  faces  blacked  and  their  eyes  white, 
others  these  colours  reversed,  a  third,  with  a  yellow 
face,  had,  perhaps,  red  eyes  and  a  red  chin,  and  so  on. 
All  wore  the  oldest  and  the  duddiest  of  clothes  they 
could  procure :  their  head-dress  was  often  a  battered 
long  hat  or  a  woman's  straw-bonnet — the  latter  was 
the  favourite  head-gear,  as  the  protecting  front  of  the 
old-fashioned  coal-scuttle  bonnet  shaded  the  eyes  from 
the  flare  of  the  tarry-rope  lights.  An  amusing  story 
is  told  of  an  old  weaver,  who,  from  all  accounts,  did 
not  spend  much  time  in  the  performance  of  his  daily 
toilet.  There  were  going  to  be  some  fishers  on  the 
water,  and  he  was  to  be  one  of  the  party,  so,  on  asking 
his  wife — 'Nanny,  how  shud  aa'  'guise  meesel  the 
night?'  she  replied,  'Aa'l  tell  ye  what,  John,  just 
wesh  yor  fyce,  an'  a'm  sure  nebody'll  ken  ye.'" 

As  we  pass  on,  we  look  up  on  the  left,  and  find  that 
the  scene  has  changed,  not  that  the  mountains  are  less 
lofty  or  less  stern  in  their  native  character,  but  that 
skill  and  culture  have  been  applied.  We  are  looking 
on  the  rocks  which  the  wise  and  liberal  expenditure  of 
Lord  Armstrong  have  converted  into  hanging  gardens, 
not  perhaps  so  magnificent  as  those  of  ancient  Babylon, 
but  certainly  very  beautiful  and  striking.  He  chose 
in  this  region  to  fix  his  abode — has  built  a  splendid 
mansion,  Cragside  he  has  named  it,  and  made  the  bare 
hills  all  about  it  to  blossom  like  the  rose.  He  has 
prudently  planted  only  the  kind  of  growths  that  would 


Todsted  Farm.  297 


flourish  on  such  ground  and  in  such  a  situation  :  firs, 
pines,  rhododendrons,  ferns,  and  so  forth,  and  not  only 
has  he  his  reward,  but  every  passer-by  has  his  share 
in  it.  Such  a  man  is  a  great  benefactor,  and  every 
visitor  to  Rothbury  is  indebted  to  him. 

As  we  drove  along  beyond  Cragside  grounds  a 
strange  sight  met  our  eyes.  On  a  field  on  the  side  of 
one  of  the  gentle  slopes  to  our  left,  lying  as  it  were 
between  two  swelling  heights,  fit  probably  only  for 
grazing  sheep,  we  saw  what  seemed  to  us  two  figures 
in  women's  dress — the  one  at  the  plough,  the  other  at 
the  harrow.  The  horses  seemed  under  complete  com- 
mand, and  the  work  was  proceeding  apace.  In  surprise 
we  turned  to  our  intelligent  driver,  who  said,  in  answer 
to  our  queries :  "  Yes,  they  are  women,  and  the  people 
round  about  here  regard  it  only  as  an  ordinary  matter 
to  see  them  out  at  work.  That  is  Todsted  farm ;  it  is 
held  by  a  man  who  has  four  daughters,  and  up  to  quite 
a  recent  date  they  themselves  did  the  whole  work  of 
the  farm,  ploughing,  harrowing,  sowing,  reaping,  and 
attending  to  the  stock.  The  bulk  of  the  farm,  which 
is  between  300  and  400  acres,  is  in  sheep  runs,  but 
certain  things  have  led  the  father  of  late  to  turn  a  little 
more  into  arable,  and  he  has  now  got  the  assistance  of 
a  young  man,  but  the  daughters  still  take  a  turn  at 
every  kind  of  work,  and  very  good  hands  they  are 
too."  It  was  very  odd  to  have  gone  to  the  wild  and 
picturesque  neighbourhood  of  Rothbury  to  see  some- 
thing in  this  line  so  entirely  new — to  see  something 
more  than  a  practical  working  out  of  the  old  saw  which 
it  is  so  often  said  has  now  got  antiquated— 

"  Man  to  the  mow, 
Wife  to  the  cow, 
Son  to  the  plough, 
Girl  to  the  sow." 


298  In  Coquetdale. 


We  pass  by  the  quaint  little  village  of  Pauperhaugh 
or  Pepperhaugh,  as  it  is  locally  called,  with  its  unique 
post-office,  and  see  on  our  right  the  remains  of  Brink- 
burn  Ironworks,  where  many  thousand  pounds  were 
sunk  years  ago  (for  coal  and  iron  are  to  be  found  in  the 
valley) ;  but  it  was  a  failure,  and  the  works  abandoned 
— another  proof  that  no  such  enterprise  can  prosper 
unconnected  with  a  railway,  and  this  was  before  the 
railway  was  brought  so  near  as  it  is  now-a-days. 

As  we  proceed  onward,  the  valley  gradually  opens 
out,  throwing  its  wooded  heights  further  from  the 
stream;  the  river  widens  and  winds,  forming  fine 
sweeps  and  greeny  reaches  in  the  loops  it  makes.  We 
see,  from  the  depth  and  colour  of  the  water  just  after  it 
has  passed  over  brawling  shallows  and  forms  pools, 
that  there  the  fisher  will  love,  in  a  sweet  west  wind  that 
gently  stirs  it,  to  ply  his  "  triple  floating  flies,"  or  cast 
his  minnow  in  the  early  morning  sun,  or  the  mellower 
afternoon  light.  So  it  flows  on,  murmuring  and  singing 
to  itself,  till  we  reach  the  famous  Brinkburn,  with  its 
Priory  set  sweetly  on  one  of  the  greeny  loops  we  have 
referred  to,  as  though  it  had  been  prepared  precisely 
for  just  such  a  structure.  Very  beautiful  is  the  whole 
picture  here  presented — the  Priory,  with  its  gardens 
and  woods  gathered  round  it,  as  though  nestling  there  ; 
and  looking  on  the  water  where  its  outlines  are  faintly 
reflected  in  the  stream  that  here  flows  calm  and  clear. 
Those  who  wish  to  know  all  the  details  about  this 
historical  priory  must  go  to  the  guide-books — to  Mr. 
W.  W.  Tomlinson's  very  admirable  "  Comprehensive 
Guide  to  Northumberland,"  published  by  Mr.  Walter 
Scott,  or  to  the  everyway  excellent  little  guides  by  Mr. 
D.  D.  Dixon  and  Mr.  James  Ferguson  of  Morpeth. 

Another  very  famous  point  on  the  river  is  Weldon 
Bridge,  where  there  is  a  quiet  and  homely  inn  much 


Brinkburn. 


299 


patronised  by  fishermen  in  the  season,  and  by  bicyclists 
and  parties  of  men  on  walking  tours.  We  have  good 
reason  to  speak  of  the  cleanliness  and  order  of  this 
inn,  for  we  rested  there  and  found  ourselves  in  good 


BRINKBUKN. 

company,  from  which  we  did  not  seek  to  stand  aloof. 
True,  indeed,  is  the  old  rhyme  still : — 

"  At  Weldon  Bridge  there's  wale  o'  wine, 

If  ye  hae  coin  in  pocket ; 
If  ye  can  throw  a  heckle  fine, 
There's  wale  o'  trout  in  Coquet" 


300 


In   Coquetdale. 


Here  the  river  widens  out,  the  banks  becoming 
flatter,  and  so  continue  for  some  distance  with  little 
variation,  till  we  approach  the  very  beautiful  village  of 
Felton,  where  again  the  banks  rise,  the  river  in  some 
degree  narrows,  and  you  have  one  of  the  finest  effects 
imaginable.  Felton  lies  as  if  in  a  half  cup-like  hollow 
on  the  left  side  in  a  series  of  irregular  terraces,  some 


WELDON   BRIDGE. 

of  the  houses  appearing  almost  to  be  hung  nest-like 
on  the  slope  amid  trees  and  delicious  greenery,  while 
the  main  road,  now  high  on  the  right  bank  of  the  river, 
runs  through  another  village  higher  up,  and  looking,  as 
it  were,  lovingly  down  across  upon  Felton.  The  scene 
is  indeed  delicious.  From  the  blue  and  red  roofs,  the 
smoke,  as  we  looked,  rose  straight  into  the  blue,  for 
not  much  wind  was  then  stirring.  Had  we  the  power 


Warkworth.  30 1 


of  choosing  the  spot  where  we  should  spend  the  two 
most  charming  months  of  the  year,  we  are  not  sure  but 
we  should  say  Felton,  and  would  give  it  a  fair  trial,  sin- 
cerely hoping  that  it  would  not  verify  the  truth  of  the 
line,  that  "distance  lends  enchantment  to  the  view." 

There  is  not  much  more  to  make  note  of  till  we  reach 
Acklington,  which  is  rather  a  cold-looking  little  village, 
and  here  we  leave  the  river  to  return  to  it  when  we 
reach  Warkworth.  This  is  one  of  the  quaintest  of  old 
towns.  Driven  from  the  station,  we  find  the  road  goes 
right  round  the  greater  half  of  the  town,  and  you  enter 
it  by  the  further  side,  crossing  the  river,  which  almost 
winds  round  the  little  town,  by  an  old  two-arched 
bridge  with  many  angles,  and  passing  under  an  old 
and  picturesque  gateway  that  directly  recalls  mediaeval 
times.  Going  forward,  you  come  to  the  main  street, 
and  the  Castle  lies  on  the  height  right  in  front  of  you 
on  a  flat  greeny  knoll.  It  is  much  more  of  a  ruin  than 
might  be  fancied  from  the  picture.  The  keep,  built 
on  an  artificial  mound  and  thus  overtopping  the  rest, 
is  the  portion  in  best  preservation,  if  we  except  the 
great  gateway  on  the  opposite  side  from  the  town, 
which  is  one  of  the  oldest  parts,  if  not  the  very  oldest ; 
and  by  its  powerful  build  and  fine  machicolation  tells 
how  in  these  days  use  and  ornament  went  hand  in 
hand.  The  keep  was  built  on  the  site  of  an  earlier 
one  by  the  son  of  that  Hotspur  celebrated  by  Shake- 
spe'are  in  "  Henry  IV.,"  between  the  years  1415  and 
1454.  Mr.  Freeman  says  "it  is  a  good  study  of  the 
process  by  which  the  purely  military  castle  gradually 
passed  into  the  house  fortified  for  any  occasional 
emergency."  All  round  the  Castle,  in  the  olden  days, 
there  ran  a  wall  ramparted  and  with  round  towers  at 
certain  points,  but  this  wall  has  been  in  parts  destroyed, 


302 


In  Coquet  dale. 


or  has  mouldered  away,  so  that  the  two  parts  of  the 
Castle,  as  seen  in  our  illustration,  seem  to  be  almost 
disconnected.  The  arms  of  the  Percys,  and  many 
other  devices,  are  engraven  on  the  walls  here  and  there, 
and  we  see  many  traces  of  draw-wells  and  dungeons, 
deep  pits  and  descents,  in  some  of  which,  no  doubt, 
men  were  imprisoned,  or  it  may  be,  shut  from  the  light 
of  day  and  tortured. 


WARKVVORTH   CASTLE. 


All  round  about  Warkworth  are  the  most  delightful 
walks,  and  bits  on  the  river  are  simply  charming.  The 
steep  banks  on  the  side  opposite  the  church  are  laid 
out  in  the  most  attractive  pathways ;  and,  as  we  stood 
there  in  the  sunset  admiring  the  effect,  we  heard  the 
big  fish  leap  in  the  still  pools  with  the  big  bouldery 
margins  beyond  and  nearer  to  us.  Nor  should  the 


Ckurc/i  of  St.  Lawrence.  303 

parish  church,  dedicated  to  St.  Lawrence,  be  left  with- 
out some  examination.  It  is  a  fine  structure  and  well 
worth  attention,  as  specimens  of  all  the  various  styles 
of  English  architecture  are  to  be  seen  in  it.  Mr.  Tom- 
linson  (p.  408)  gives  these  excellent  hints  regarding 
the  most  interesting  points  in  connection  with  it  :— 

"  The  features  most  worthy  of  special  notice  are,  the 
Norman  windows  of  the  nave,  the  original  groining  of 
the  chancel,  and  the  Norman  triplet  filled  with  modern 
stained  glass  at  the  east  end,  and  the  chancel  arch  with 
its  singular  and  perhaps  unique  fan  ornamentation  ;  the 
old  staircase  for  the  ringer  of  the  sanctus  bell  at  the 
north-east  angle  of  the  nave ;  the  cross-legged  effigy  of  a 
knight  in  the  south  aisle ;  and  a  curious  window  in  the 
vestry  composed  of  three  narrow  slits,  through  which  it 
is  believed  an  anchorite  inhabiting  this  chamber  com- 
municated with  persons  outside.  The  porch  on  the 
outside  is  well  peppered  with  bullet  marks.  Within  it 
is  laid  the  opening  scene  of  Mr.  Walter  Besant's  story, 
'  Let  nothing  you  dismay ; '  the  hero  of  the  narrative 
having  to  do  penance  in  a  white  sheet  before  the  con- 
gregation entering  the  church." 

In  speaking  to  some  of  the  more  intelligent  inhabi- 
tants I  met  of  the  facility  with  which  the  castle  might 
be  restored,  after  the  manner  in  which  the  Earl  of 
Moray  restored  Doune  Castle,  I  was  somewhat  sur- 
prised to  find  that  the  suggestion  met  with  no  encou- 
ragement from  them. ,  They  shrugged  their  shoulders ; 
and  said  that  it  was  better  as  it  was.  The  Duke  of 
Northumberland  had  a  splendid  seat  not  very  far  off 
— Alnwick  Castle,  namely — and  they  knew  that  were 
Warkworth  Castle  restored,  and  the  ducal  family  settled 
even  for  a  part  of  the  year  there,  it  would  soon  come 
to  be  a  heavy  tax  on  the  good  folks  of  Warkworth,  by  a 


304  In  Cocjuctdale. 


curtailment  of  their  freedom  in  many  ways — no  doubt 
a  very  sensible  view  to  take,  but  certainly  not  savour- 
ing much  of  feudal  devotion,  which  just  shows  how  far 
and  how  fast  we  are  now  travelling  from  the  romance 
and  sentiment  of  the  feudal  times. 

Looking  out  from  the  ramparts  of  the  castle  seaward, 
we  could  behold  Coquet  Island  lying  perhaps  a  mile 
out,  like  a  vast  black-backed  fish  basking  in  the  sun, 
with  the  lighthouse,  dwindled  to  a  small  point,  like 
a  high  whitish  fin  just  behind  the  head.  We  made 
inquiries  about  the  best  means  of  getting  out  to  it, 
but  were  told  that  unless  when  the  boat  goes  out  with 
supplies  for  the  lighthouse  men  there  is  no  course  but 
specially  to  employ  a  fisherman  or  boatman  to  row  one 
out.  But  on  asking  whether  Coquet  Island  Cell  was 
worth  the  journey,  all  to  whom  we  spoke  answered 
decidedly  no,  that  Coquet  Island  was,  in  their  idea, 
best  looked  at  from  a  distance,  that  the  only  portion 
of  the  famous  cell  that,  remained  was  now  a  part  of 
the  foundation  of  the  lighthouse  or  keeper's  house,  and 
that  if  it  could  be  seen  at  all  it  was  with  difficulty,  and 
they  dissuaded  us  from  the  enterprise.  Wrecks,  in  old 
days,  were  all  too  frequent  on  Coquet  Island,  so  that 
it  was  a  cause  of  great  rejoicing  when  on  1st  October 
1841  the  first  light  was  exhibited  from  the  lighthouse. 
In  1643,  during  the  Civil  Wars,  the  place  was  taken, 
with  all  its  garrison,  by  the  Scots,  and  thus  attained 
for  the  time  some  importance. 

Instead  of  rowing  to  Coquet  Island,  therefore,  we 
acted  on  the  suggestion  received  and  visited  the  Her- 
mitage, which  lies  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  up  the 
river  from  the  castle  in  the  centre  of  a  wood,  one  of 
the  most  remarkable  places  we  have  ever  visited.  As 
we  approached,  and  came  within  view  of  this  interesting 


The  Hermitage.  305 

structure,  I  could  not  help  thinking  of  Coleridge's  lines 
in  "  The  Ancient  Mariner  "  :— 

"  The  hermit  good  lives  in  the  wood  .  .  . 
He  kneels  at  morn,  and  noon,  and  eve — 
He  hath  a  cushion  plump  : 
It  is  the  moss  that  wholly  hides 
The  rotten,  old  oak  stump." 

The  hermitage  itself  is  cut  out  of  the  solid  freestone 
rock  some  twenty  feet  in  height,  and  is  approached  by 
a  flight  of  some  seventeen  steps  also  cut  in  the  rock. 
It  contains  three  apartments,  the  cell,  the  chapel,  and 
the  dormitory.  The  first  is  about  twenty  feet  in  length, 
and  about  seven  and  a  half  feet  in  height,  and  it  is 
certainly  not  to  be  matched  elsewhere  in  our  country. 

Here  and  there  are  relics  of  sculptured  effigies  of 
angels  and  cherubs,  and  crosses  and  other  emblems. 
The  ceilings  are  beautifully  groined,  the  arches  spring- 
ing from  highly  wrought  pilasters.  On  an  altar  tomb, 
to  the  right  of  the  altar,  just  before  a  two-light  win- 
dow, is  the  recumbent  figure  of  a  lady,  her  hands 
upraised.  On  the  inner  wall  over  the  entrance  is 
inscribed,  in  old  English  characters,  the  Latin,  Fuerunt 
mihi  lacrymce  mece  panes  die  ac  nocte,  "  my  tears  have 
been  my  meat  day  and  night."  Built  up  against  the 
side  of  the  rock  is  a  little  chamber  about  eighteen 
feet  square,  and  in  it  is  a  wide  fireplace.  It  is  sup- 
posed that  this  was  the  residence  of  a  chantry-priest, 
who  lived  here  at  a  period  subsequent  to  the  original 
date  of  the  hermitage. 

The  solitude  of  the  place,  the  sense  of  sanctity,  re- 
inforced by  the  wealth  of  foliage,  the  shrubs,  mosses, 
and  ferns  surrounding  it,  combine  to  awaken  feelings 
new  and  unique ;  the  mind  is  filled  with  emotions 

U 


306 


In  Coquetdale. 


kindred  to  those  which  animated  the  men  who  sought 
such  a  retreat  in  days  long  gone  by,  and  desired  to 
make  it  mirror  as  far  as  might  be  the  feelings  of  rever- 
ence and  worship  that  dwelt  in  them.  Antiquarians 
give  the  date  of  the  structure  as  the  middle  of  the 
fourteenth  century. 


XIX. 
ABOUT  WOOLER. 

WOOLER  is  the  centre  of  a  world  of  its  own.  It  is,  as 
it  were,  the  queen  of  its  four  streams  which,  so  to 
speak,  knit  themselves  about  it,  and  look  on  it  from 
near  and  far  as  their  presiding  and  tutelary  patron. 
At  its  feet  the  Wooler  Water,  flowing  gracefully  on  ; 
further  off,  the  Beaumont  and  the  College  streams  that 
wind  down  to  meet  and  form  The  Glen,  one  of  the 
most  delightfully  wooded  and  most  picturesque  of 
Northumbrian  streams.  I  had  come  to  Wooler  from 
Warkworth,  and  reached  it  rather  late  in  the  evening, 
for  some  of  the  trains  on  that  line  are  not  only  slow, 
but  apt  to  be  rather  behind  time,  and  it  was  too  dark 
to  see  much  that  night.  But  as  I  took  a  turn,  and 
picked  my  way  along  at  the  risk  of  a  fall,  I  could  see 
that  the  place  was  pretty,  and  had  a  character  of  its 
own.  But  more  than  this  was  not  possible  then.  I 
put  up  at  the  delightful  Tankerville  Arms  (locally  called 
"  The  Cottage  Hotel  "),  which  combines  in  very  truth 
the  character  of  a  cottage  with  that  of  a  town  hotel. 
You  are  served  in  a  hearty  and  homely  way,  for  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Aitchison  are  the  true  old-fashioned  host  and 
hostess ;  and  you  soon  find  that  the  inn  has  many 
memorials  of  famous  fishermen  who  have  made  head- 
quarters there,  returning  to  it  again  and  again,  as 
though  it  were  to  them  a  kind  of  second  home.  It 

3°7 


308 


A  bout   Wooler. 


is  not  much  to  look  at — two  long  rows  of  building 
meeting  at  right  angles,  and  really  forming  half  of  a 
square,  with  pretty  bits  of  garden  seen  from  some  of 
the  windows.  Our  little  cut  gives  a  very  fair  idea  of 
it ;  but  the  interior  is  much  finer,  and  is  full  of  character 
in  many  respects. 

I  found  in  the  list  of  visitors  and  in  other  records  in 
the  public  rooms  much  to  interest  and  amuse  me,  and 


THE   COTTAGE   HOTEL,    WOOLEK. 

retired  to  rest  early,  that  I  might  be  up  in  the  morning 
fresh  and  able  to  make  the  most  of  my  time. 

In  the  morning  I  strolled  round  the  little  town, 
admiring  what  nature  had  done  for  it,  and  what  uncon- 
scious art  had  done  also — so  settling  some  houses  here 
and  there  in  nooks  and  corners  that  no  view  of  Wooler 
can  be  got  that  will  give  more  than  a  fragment  of  it. 
It  is  hung  on  the  slope  of  a  gentle  hill,  its  main  street 
along  a  kind  of  ridge,  and  the  back  gardens  on  the  one 


Churches.  309 


side  deliciously  sloping  down  towards  the  Wooler 
Water,  which  flows  at  its  feet.  This  street  is  the  only 
long  and  straight  thoroughfare  in  it,  and  at  the  upper 
end  it  opens  out  into  a  kind  of  triangle,  in  the  centre 
of  which  stands  the  picturesque  and  beautifully  orna- 
mented fountain  erected  by  public  subscription  to  the 
memory  of  William  Wightman,  Esq.,  who  was  a  banker 
in  the  town,  and  much  loved  and  respected.  Just  round 
from  the  corner  of  this  triangle  stands  the  parish  church 
— a  slightly  irregular  and  not  very  imposing  structure. 
Towards  the  other  end  is  the  handsome  Roman  Catholic 
Church  erected  in  1855. 

I  was  a  little  surprised  at  the  presence  of  so  many 
churches  and  chapels  in  so  small  a  town,  which  led  me 
to  remark  to  a  residenter,  with  whom  I  talked,  that 
the  good  folks  of  Wooler  must  either  be  very  good  or 
very  bad  people,  which  caused  him  to  put  on  a  ques- 
tioning look.  By  way  of  reply,  I  quoted,  in  a  laughing 
way,  the  lines  of  Defoe — 

"  Wherever  God  erects  a  house  of  prayer 
The  devil  is  sure  to  build  a  chapel  there," 

and  added,  "  the  nearer  the  church  the  further  from 
grace." 

"  Well,  yes,"  he  said,  "  we  have  enow  o'  them ;  and, 
as  you  say,  we  should  be  good  people  if  stone  and  lime 
and  the  preachin'  of  the  word  could  do  it." 

"  Why,"  I  said,  "  you  must  have  a  church  or  chapel 
for  every  score  of  people  in  the  place.  How  many 
churches  and  chapels  are  there  in  this  small  town  ?" 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  let  one  see :  there  mun  be  six  at 
least.  There's  the  Parish  Church  there  and  the  Roman 
Catholic  Church  here.  There's  a  Presbyterian  (point- 
ing with  his  finger),  and  down  that  entry  is  mother 


310  About   Wooler. 


Presbyterian,  and  there's  a  third  Presbyterian  at  the 
other  end  of  the  town.  And  we  have  a  Primitive 
Methodist  Chapel,  and  a  hall  where  the  Plymouth 
Brethren  meet.  Yes,  we  should  be  'good  people,'  if 
stone  and  lime  and  preachin'  the  word  could  do  it ;  but 
I'm  afraid  there's  a  good  bit  of  the  old  Adam  left  still 
hereabout  in  spite  of  all  that." 

And  then  he  proceeded  to  tell  me  how  it  came  about 
that  the  keen  Presbyterian  spirit  could  not  be  content 
with  fewer  than  three  churches — one  had  originally 
belonged  to  the  Established  Church  of  Scotland,  and 
one  had  been  a  Burgher  meeting-house,  but  both  were 
now  connected  with  the  Presbyterian  Church  of  Eng- 
land. The  independence  of  the  Border  spirit  thus 
comes  out  very  illustrative  in  the  field  of  religion ;  the 
people  are,  or  have  been,  keenly  influenced  by  the 
religious  and  theological  differences  that  prevail  in  both 
countries.  The  Roman  Catholic  church,  he  told  me, 
was  built  at  a  time  when  not  a  few  of  the  landed  gentry 
in  the  region  leaned  that  way ;  but  now  many  of  them 
had  died  out,  and  the  numbers  attending  this  spacious 
church  were  so  few,  that  when  a  much  esteemed  priest 
died  some  years  ago  no  new  priest  was  settled  in 
Wooler,  and  they  "  begged  or  borrowed "  a  priest,  as 
he  said,  now  and  then  from  neighbouring  churches. 

As  we  talked,  the  beauty  of  the  morning  was,  as  it 
were,  blighted  by  two  or  three  ragged,  wretched- 
looking,  filthy  creatures  creeping  along  with  that  pecu- 
liar huddling  together  of  the  figure  that  tells  of  too 
scanty  clothing  for  the  keen  morning  air.  Hands  in 
pockets,  and  nondescript  caps  drawn  as  far  as  might 
be  over  their  eyes,  they  crept  on,  ill-shod,  as  though 
the  sunlight  were  a  burden ;  and  they  were  followed 
by  another  couple  with  better  bearing,  much  more 


Tramps.  311 

independent  air,  and  cleanlier  look — they  had  little 
bundles  in  their  hands.  My  eyes  turned  from  them 
to  him  with  inquiry. 

"  Oh  !  "  he  said,  "  these  in  front  are  tramps  just 
come  from  our  workhouse  over  there  behind  the 
church,  and  they  are  just  on  their  way  to  the  next 
one.  They  go  a  regular  round,  and  that  makes  up 
their  lives,  poor  devils — 'tis  little  better  than  a  tread- 
wheel,  yet  they  don't  commit  suicide.  The  two  behind, 
if  I  judge  right,  are  not  tramps,  but  respectable  working 
men  out  of  a  job  moving  on  to  try  and  find  one.  They 
look  very  different  from  the  others,  and  may  work  into 
better  luck  yet." 

I  looked  again  as  those  in  front  turned  a  corner,  and 
saw  the  last  of  them — one  was  just  borrowing  a  rag 
from  another,  probably  all  they  had  for  a  handkerchief 
among  the  lot.  In  these  days  of  accumulation  and 
care  for  the  things  of  to-morrow,  these  men,  at  all 
events,  illustrate  complete  dependence  on  Providence, 
laying  up  no  treasure  for  themselves  here  below,  nor 
carrying  scrip  nor  cloak — the  saddest  spectacle  almost 
to  be  seen  in  our  Christian  country,  and  strongly  em- 
phasised here  by  the  freshness,  greenness,  and  sparkle 
of  nature  all  around. 

Before  I  parted  from  my  good  informant,  a  gentle- 
man with  an  air  of  business  came  along,  whom  I  was 
informed  was  Mr.  Brand  of  the  "  Atlas  "  Printing  Works, 
who  could  supply  me  with  the  "  guide  "  I  wanted.  I 
went  with  him  to  his  place  to  get  Mr.  Hall's  very 
excellent  "  Guide  to  Glendale,"  which  I  found  most 
interesting  and  useful,  simple,  clear,  and  nicely  illus- 
trated. 

This  enabled  me  to  choose  my  walks  whilst  at  Wooler; 
and  of  two  of  them  I  must  make  special  mention.  The 


312  About   Wooler. 


first  was  to  Haughhead,  by  a  delightful  road.  You 
turn  round  the  upper  side  of  the  town  down  a  deli- 
cious descent  to  Wooler  Bridge — another  with  many 
angles — and  then  crossing  it,  enter  a  wide  plain  with  a 
steepish  hill  on  one  side  near  Wooler  laid  out  in  pretty 
walks,  and  then  you  pass  on  to  a  region  of  gentle 
swelling  hills.  The  road  winds,  and  the  Wooler  Water 
spreads  here  and  there  over  gravelly  reaches,  and 
chatters  and  sings  to  itself,  and  then  passes  into  deeper 
pools,  and,  like  deep  things,  is  then  silent.  Haughhead 
is  a  good  place  for  picnic  parties  to  go  to  if  they  wish 
quiet/and  they  had  need  to  picnic,  for  the  inn  there  is  not 
now  what  it  was  in  the  olden  coaching  days.  But  what 
gives  its  main  interest  to  the  place  is  the  fact  that  here 
the  English  army  lay  encamped  for  two  days  just  be- 
fore Flodden.  It  was  from  this  place  that  the  Earl  of 
Surrey  sent  that  letter  of  7th  September,  upbraiding 
the  Scottish  king  for  breaking  his  promise  to  meet  the 
English  forces,  and  offering  to  give  him  battle  next  day 
on  Milfield  Plain. 

The  second  was  to  Humbleton,  to  see  what  is  called 
"  The  Cup  and  Saucer  Camp."  It  is  an  intrenchment 
which  is  said  to  have  been  one  of  the  strongholds 
of  the  ancient  Britons.  Mr.  Hall  gives  a  very  full 
description  of  it:  "It  is  180  yards  in  circumference, 
having  a  hollow  in  the  centre  of  the  area,  and  is 
surrounded  by  a  rampier  of  stone  and  earth,  which  is 
yet  in  some  parts  three  feet  high."  There  is  not  a 
little  here  to  interest  the  lover  of  nature  as  well  as 
the  antiquarian,  for  some  of  the  views  from  this  point 
are  fine,  and  the  fact  that  numerous  skeletons  have  been 
dug  up  here  exceedingly  well  preserved  gives  it  a  kind 
of  claim  upon  the  regard  of  ethnologists. 

A  letter  from  Sir  Walter  Scott  to  his  friend  Clark, 


Sir    Walter  Scott s  Letter.  313 


in  1791,  when  he  paid  a  visit  to  Wooler  and  its  neigh- 
bourhood, is  of  value,  were  it  for  nothing  else  but 
showing  that  in  these  days  here,  as  in  Coquetdale, 
the  keeping  of  goats  for  the  sake  of  the  milk,  &c., 
was  common,  though  now  the  hill  farmer  has  turned 
his  attention  to  the  more  profitable  occupation  of  sheep- 
rearing,  and  the  lowland  farmer  to  the  more  scientific 
cultivation  of  the  soil,  which  has  led  to  a  great  change 
in  the  landscape  in  many  ways.  But  we  must  give 
ourselves  the  pleasure  of  quoting  a  part  of  Sir  Walter's 
most  characteristic  letter  : — 

"I  am  very  snugly  settled  here  in  a  farmer's  house 
about  six  miles  from  Wooler,  in  the  very  centre  of  the 
Cheviot  Hills,  in  one  of  the  wildest  and  most  romantic 
situations  which  your  imagination  ever  suggested.  And 
what  the  deuce  are  you  doing  there  ?  methinks  I  hear 
you  say.  Why,  sir,  of  all  things  in  the  world,  drinking 
goats'  whey :  not  that  I  stand  in  the  least  need  of  it, 
but  my  uncle  having  a  slight  cold,  and  being  a  little 
tired  of  home,  asked  me  last  Sunday  evening  if  I 
would  like  to  go  with  him  to  Wooler,  and  I,  answering 
in  the  affirmative,  next  morning's  sun  beheld  us  on 
our  journey  through  a  pass  in  the  Cheviots,  upon  the 
backs  of  two  special  nags,  and  man  Thomas  behind 
with  a  portmanteau  and  two  fishing-rods  fastened 
across  his  back,  much  in  the  style  of  St.  Andrew's 
cross.  Upon  reaching  Wooler  we  found  the  accom- 
modation so  bad  that  we  were  forced  to  use  some 
interest  to  get  lodgings  here,  where  we  are  most 
delightfully  appointed  indeed.  To  add  to  my  satis- 
faction, we  are  among  places  renowned  by  the  feats 
of  former  days :  each  hill  is  crowned  with  a  tower,  or 
camp,  or  cairn,  and  in  no  situation  can  you  be  nearer 
more  fields  of  battle — Flodden  and  Chevy  Chase,  Ford 


314  About   Wooler. 


Castle,  Chillingham  Castle,  Coupland  Castle,  and  many 
another  scene  of  blood  are  within  the  compass  of  a 
forenoon's  ride.  .  .  .  All  day  we  shoot,  fish,  walk,  and 
ride,  dine  and  sup  on  fish  straight  from  the  stream, 
and  the  most  delicious  heath-fed  mutton,  barn-door 
fowls,  poys  (pies),  milk-cheese,  &c.,  all  in  perfection." 

To  those  who  are  interested  in  cattle  a  visit  to 
Chillingham  jto  see  the  wild  cattle  there  will  be  most 
enjoyable.  It  is  an  easy  matter  from  Wooler,  being 
only  six  and  a  half  miles  off.  The  poet  has  thus 
enforced  the  attractions  of  such  a  visit  in  May  :— 

"  The  wild  bull  his  covert  in  Chillingham  wood 

Has  left,  and  now  browses  the  daisy-strewed  plain  ; 
The  mayfly  and  swallow  are  skimming  the  flood, 

And  sweet  in  the  hedge  blooms  the  hawthorn  again." 

I  left  Wooler  to  proceed  up  the  glen,  beloved  of 
fishermen.  It  becomes  more  and  more  picturesque 
and  nicely  wooded  as  you  advance  into  it,  the  views 
being  here  and  there  very  varied  and  extensive.  At 
one  point  you  look  over  ranges  and  ranges  of  hills  rising 
in  wave-like  forms,  till  you  catch  the  high  flat  head  of 
Cheviot  himself  overlooking  all,  and,  unless  in  the  heat 
of  summer,  you  will  see  the  streaks  of  snow  still  linger- 
ing on  his  higher  ridges.  Very  faithful  and  very 
beautiful  is  the  picture  which  Story,  the  shepherd-poet 
of  Lanton,  has  sketched  of  the  hills  as  seen  from  his 
abode  on  Lanton  Hill : — 

"  '  These  mountains  wild,'  began  the  maiden,  '  claim 
Each  for  itself  a  separate  local  name. 
We  stand  on  Lanton  Hill.     Not  far  behind, 
The  verdant  Howsden  woos  the  summer  wind  ; 
That  mountain  with  its  three  wild  peaks  before 
Is  styled  by  dwellers  near  it  Newton  Torr; 


Yeavering  Bell. 


315 


The  oak-clad  ridges  there  of  Akeld  swell, 
And  here  the  bolder  slopes  of  Yeavering  Bell, 
While  towering  yonder,  with  his  patch  of  snow, 
And  proudly  overlooking  all  below, 
Is  CHEVIOT'S  mighty  self,  his  throne  who  fills, 
The  admitted  monarch  of  Northumbrian  hills.'" 

Yeavering  Bell  can  be  seen  very  distinctly  from  the 
railway,  its   upper  part  like  a   cone,  with   two  wide- 


COUPLAND   CASTLE. 

spreading  shoulders,  shining  green  and  purple  in  the 
sun. 

Further  on  the  valley  widens,  the  river  gliding  under 
gentle  wooded  slopes  on  the  northern  side,  and,  amid 
the  most  exquisite  of  these  woods,  rises  the  beautiful 
Coupland  Castle,  with  its  square  towers  and  angles,  fitly 
placed  if  ever  castle  were.  There  is  a  dreamy  grace 


316  About   Wooler. 


about  it,  so  different  from  many  of  the  Northumbrian 
Border  castles,  as  though  it  should  have  been  at  all 
times  the  refuge  of  refinement  and  peace.  Mr.  Tom- 
linson  tells  us  that  "  when  the  survey  of  Border  towns 
and  castles  was  made  in  1552,  there  was  no  fortress  or 
barmekyn  at  Coupland ; "  and  yet  he  goes  on  to  add  : 
"The  fact  of  such  a  stonghold  being  raised  sixteen 
years  after  the  union  of  the  two  kingdoms  is  a  remark- 
able proof  of  the  unsafe  and  unsettled  state  of  the 
Borderland  at  that  time.  The  oldest  portion  of  the 
existing  castle  consists  of  two  strong  towers,  contain- 
ing eleven  rooms  and  a  remarkable  stone  corkscrew 
staircase.  The  walls  are  in  some  places  six  and  seven 
feet  thick.  At  the  corners  of  the  castle  are  '  pepper- 
pot  '  turrets,  the  only  other  examples  south  of  the 
Tweed  being  at  Dilston  and  Duddo." 

But  our  time  in  the  glen  is  exhausted,  though  we  are 
loth  to  leave  it,  with  its  soft  pencilled  beauty  here  and 
there,  and  its  wilder  breaks  and  ravines  and  distant 
romantic  glimpses.  We  must  make  for  Kirknewton, 
there  to  get  the  train  to  take  us  south  again,  for  we 
are  already  almost  due  in  London  town. 


APPENDIX. 


APPENDIX. 


i. 

IMITATIVE  BIRDS  AND  THE  NIGHTINGALE'S 
SONG. 

IT  is  well  known  that  there  are  whole  classes  of  birds  which, 
instead  of  keeping  to  a  definite  song  of  their  own,  are  apt 
to  imitate  the  songs  of  other  birds,  and  bring  it  in  into  their 
own  in  the  most  arbitrary  way.  The  mocking-bird  is  the 
typical  bird  of  this  class.  But  some  of  our  common  birds, 
such  as  the  starling  and  blackbird  and  thrush  on  the  one 
hand,  and  the  little  wren  and  the  bullfinch  on  the  other, 
are  apt  to  surprise  those  who  closely  watch  them  by  occa- 
sional departure  from  the  ordinary  notes  and  the  introduction 
of  something  quite  fresh.  This  was  brought  before  my  mind 
in  the  oddest  way.  As  told  in  chapter  vi.,  I  had  gone  one 
summer  evening,  about  ten  o'clock,  to  the  vicarage  park, 
about  a  mile  from  the  little  house  where  I  live  in  the 
country,  to  hear  a  concert  of  nightingales,  a  concert  which 
was  indeed  richly  enjoyable,  the  birds  coming  out  in  the 
fullest  songs  with  their  trills,  warbles,  gurgles,  jug-jug-jugs 
as  though  in  honour  of  our  presence.  When  we  left  to 
return  home,  it  was  near  midnight ;  and,  strange  to  our  ears, 
as  we  trudged  along  in  the  moonlight,  it  seemed  as  though 
from  many  distinct  points  the  faint  echo  of  nightingales' 
songs  came  on  the  low  wind.  We  could  not  have  believed 
that  there  were  so  many  nightingales  about  in  that  district. 

We  published  an  account  (abridged,  compared  with  what  it 

319 


,2O  Appendix. 


is  in  this  book)  of  our  visit  to  the  nightingales  at  the  vicarage, 
in  the  Argosy  ;  and  that  article  brought  us  some  correspon- 
dence, a  portion  of  which,  as  it  certainly  embodied  original 
observation,  and  was  suggestive  of  new  explanations  of  cer- 
tain facts,  may  be  welcomed — the  more  that  it  may  lead  to 
further  and  fuller  observation,  comparison  of  experiences, 
and  definite  results  in  what  are  at  present  doubtful  questions. 
At  all  events,  some  very  interesting  questions  will  be  raised 
about  the  nightingale's  song  and  its  effect  upon  other  birds. 
Some  of  the  observations  of  my  correspondent  may  do  some- 
thing to  explain  the  very  conflicting  evidence  we  get  about 
the  earliest  or  the  latest  dates  at  which  nightingales  have 
been  heard  in  a  definite  vicinity ;  for,  if  other  birds  can,  by 
continuous  effort,  come  to  imitate  the  nightingale,  perfecting 
their  imitation  even  after  the  nightingale  has  ceased,  these 
songs  might  well  be  mistaken  in  many  cases  for  the  song 
of  the  nightingale  itself.  My  correspondent  not  only  speaks 
for  himself,  but  for  others ;  and  it  would  be  very  valuable, 
and  help  towards  a  settlement  of  the  questions,  if  others 
would  give  the  result  of  their  observations. 


"  NORTH  AM,  DEVON,  December  8,  1890. 

"  DEAR  SIR, — In  your  article  on  nightingales  in  Sep- 
tember Argosy,  which  has  just  come  under  my  notice,  you 
say,  '  How  the  other  birds  can  sleep  soundly  in  their  beds 
is  indeed  a  wonder.' 

"  The  following  facts  may  raise  a  doubt  whether  they  do. 
I  have  never  seen  observations  of  the  kind  in  any  Natural 
History  work,  and  therefore  they  may  have  an  interest  for 
you  and  Mr.  C.  Wood,  as  naturalists. 

"  In  '72,  I  went  to  live  on  Shooters  Hill,  Kent.  The 
nightingales  were  very  numerous,  and  as  many  of  them 
were  in  the  garden,  and  when  singing  were  often  on  trees 


Night  Concerts  of  Birds.  3  2 1 

within  a  few  feet  of  my  bedroom  window,  and  as  my  duties 
also  kept  me  from  retiring  till  late,  I  had  good  opportunities 
for  observing. 

"I  found  frequently  that  when  the  song  was  long  con- 
tinued, and  the  nightingales  numerous,  other  birds  gave 
evidence  of  unrest ;  but,  on  many  occasions,  when  the 
nightingales'  tones  were  prolonged  till  twelve  or  one  o'clock, 
especially  on  nights  of  great  brilliancy,  the  moon  being 
near  the  full,  all  the  songsters  joined  in,  and  a  concert  of 
great  power  took  place  for  about  twenty  minutes.  In  some 
cases  there  must  have  been  hundreds  of  birds  over  scores 
of  acres  singing  at  the  same  time. 

"  About  '83  I  heard  a  similar  night  concert  at  Lee  Woods, 
opposite  Clifton  Downs.  Contrary  to  usual  idea,  night- 
ingales are  not  rare  in  some  parts  of  Devon,  and  within  the 
last  two  years  I  have  repeatedly  heard  their  songs.  I  could 
distinguish  the  singing  of  from  five  or  seven  to  eight  birds 
end  in  one  of  these  general  night-concerts  of  various  singing- 
birds.  One  of  these  took  place  in  '89;  it  began  at  11.10, 
and  lasted,,  with  some  intervals,  three-quarters  of  an  hour. 
This  is  the  earliest  I  have  heard.  The  latest  was  about  four 
in  the  morning.  I  have  never  heard  the  singing-birds  give 
such  concerted  masses  of  sound  by  day. — Yours  truly, 

"T.  MANN  JONES,  F.G.S." 

In  replying  to  this  letter,  I  mentioned  that  the  sentence 
which  Mr.  Mann  Jones  has  quoted  was  meant  to  lead  up  to 
a  reference  to  that  legend  of  Sultan  Solyman  the  Magnifi- 
cent (supplied  in  the  foregoing  chapter),  which  represents 
the  b'irds  as  coming  to  him  and  claiming  his  aid  on  their 
behalf  against  the  nightingale  for  disturbing  their  slumbers 
by  his  'notes  during  night,  so  that  they  could  not  from 
weariness  sing  so  sweetly  through  the  day  as  otherwise  they 
would  do.  Of  course  the  Sultan's  decision  was  that  he 
could  not  silence  the  nightingale  to  procure  unbroken  sleep 
for  the  birds. 

X 


322  Appendix. 


ii. 

"NORTHAM,  DEVON,  ijth January  1891. 

"  DEAR  SIR, — In  reply  to  yours  just  received,  you  are 
heartily  welcome  to  use  my  letter  of  the  8th  December  in 
the  way  you  propose,  and  I  shall  have  great  pleasure  in 
receiving  a  copy  of  your  intended  paper. 

"Your  letter  recalled  the  fact  that  the  observations  were 
wider  than  I  stated  in  my  letter.  I  first  noticed  these 
concerts  in  Sussex,  and,  mentioning  the  fact  to  my  mother, 
I  found  that  she  had  observed  the  circumstance  many 
times,  and  for  some  years.  The  only  other  person  I  have 
ever  known  who  had  observed  them  was  a  totally  illiterate 
but  remarkably  intelligent  woman  of  great  age,  who  had 
never  been  out  of  Sussex.  I  have  searched  "  nightingale 
literature  "  in  vain  for  any  allusion  to  these  night  concerts. 

"It  is  my  conviction  that  the  nightingale  produces  an 
impression  on  the  birds  somewhat  analogous  to  that  pro- 
duced on  the  mind  of  man  rather  than  that  referred  to 
in  the  legend  you  mention.  As  you  are  doubtless  aware, 
individuals  among  many  of  the  songsters  learn  the  songs  of 
other  birds.  So  far  as  my  observation  goes,  the  nightingale's 
song  is  the  most  frequently  imitated. 

"  A  blackbird  sang  outside  my  bedroom  window  last 
summer,  beginning  about  two  hours  after  the  nightingale 
ceased.  He  made  many  attempts  to  imitate  the  night- 
ingale's song,  but  for  some  time  the  success  was  very  small, 
though  finally  it  was  difficult  to  distinguish  the  imitation 
from  the  original.  His  observation  must  have  been  very 
close,  as  he  only  perfected  the  imitation  some  six  weeks 
to  two  months  after  the  nightingales  had  left  the  neigh- 
bourhood. For  a  considerable  time  after  he  continued  to 
sing,  interrupting  his  own  song  at  intervals  to  take  up  the 
nightingale's. — I  am,  dear  sir,  yours  very  sincerely, 

"T.  MANN  JONES." 


Nightingales  in  Devonshire.  323 

In  one  of  a  series  of  letters  which  appeared  in  the 
Standard  some  time  since  on  the  question  whether  the 
nightingale  is  heard  in  Devonshire,  "  H.  B.  F. "  said — 

"  I  have  known  Devonshire  intimately  for  forty-two  years, 
during  ten  of  which  my  people  lived  in  the  outskirts  of  Exeter, 
but  none  of  us  were  ever  lucky  enough  to  hear  a  night- 
ingale ;  in  fact,  the  nearest  point  to  Devonshire  in  which 
I  have  heard  it  is  the  Somerset  side  of  Exmoor,  near 
Minehead.  In  saying  this  I  by  no  means  intend  to  imply 
the  shadow  of  a  doubt  on  what  "  R.  C. "  says,  but  I 
welcome  his  fact  as  proving  my  own  idea,  which  always 
has  been  that  the  nightingale  is  to  be  heard  in  Devonshire. 
It  would  be  very  interesting  if  observers  are  found  who 
have  heard  it  in  other  parts  of  the  country  where  it  has 
been  considered  unknown." 

Mr.  Mann  Jones's  evidence  is  precisely  of  the  kind  that 
H.  B.  F.  desiderates,  and  may  be  of  some  value — more 
especially  in  leading  others  to  observe  and  to  tell  the  results 
of  their  observations.  But  it  is  evident  that  the  greatest 
care  is  necessary  in  the  start  to  distinguish  between  the 
genuine  and  the  imitated  song,  for,  if  other  birds  can  recall 
and  reproduce  the  nightingale's  song  months  after  he  has 
ceased,  then  no  end  of  mistakes  are  possible  on  mere  first 
impressions.  And  this  may  affect  reports  of  other  birds' 
songs  than  that  of  the  nightingale.  The  starling  often  imi- 
tates the  notes  of  the  oyster-catcher  and  curlew  with  the 
greatest  accuracy,  that  of  the  sandpiper  too ;  and  will  often 
so  reproduce  the  cry  of  the  corncrake  or  landrail  as  to  de- 
ceive sven  careful  observers.  And  not  only  so,  but  he  will 
do  this  in  advance  of  the  arrival  of  some  of  these  birds,  so 
that  the  clever  rascal  must,  just  for  the  fun  of  the  thing, 
have  been  reproducing  a  note  learned  during  the  previous 
year.  So  that,  in  all  such  matters  as  these,  it  is  very  needful 
to  be  wary  and  make  sure  of  your  bird,  just  as  in  the  case 
of  disguises  assumed,  the  detective  needs  to  make  very  sure 
of  his  man. 


324  Appendix. 


The  Rev.  A.  Rawson,  who  has  paid  close  attention  to  the 
nightingale  and  the  nightingale's  song,  is  inclined  to  limit 
very  specifically  the  portion  of  Devon  in  which  the  bird  is 
found.  He  says — 

"  Its  partial  distribution  over  England  is  exceedingly 
curious  and  unaccountable.  In  the  South,  the  western 
limit  of  its  migration  would  appear  to  be  the  valley  of  the 
Exe,  and  even  in  this  part  of  Devon  it  is  extremely  rare, 
though  of  all  counties  this  seems  exceptionally  suited  to  its 
requirements.  It  is  found  in  Glamorgan,  is  plentiful  in  the 
valley  of  the  Wye,  but  is  unknown  in  the  Channel  Islands 
and  Ireland.  Apparently  its  migration  is  due  north  and 
south  within  defined  limits,  and  outside  these  limits  a  few 
stragglers  only  are  found.  Its  habits  are  well  known  in 
localities  where  it  breeds,  and  the  regularity  of  its  return  to 
old  haunts  is  remarkable.  In  my  own  garden  in  Kent, 
where  I  spent  forty  years  of  my  life,  in  a  parish  notorious 
for  the  abundance  as  well  as  the  quality  of  its  nightingales, 
the  arrival  of  this  bird  was  regularly  recorded  under  most 
favourable  circumstances,  and  I  find  by  my  note-book  that 
ten  days  mark  the  extremes.  It  built  always  in  my  garden, 
and  the  nest  was  usually  in  low  underwood,  near  or  on  the 
ground,  but  I  found  that  a  good  mass  of  old  peasticks  was 
also  a  favourite  situation.  The  song  lasts  till  the  young  are 
hatched,  but  I  noticed  that  when  the  nest  had  been  taken 
and  a  second  brood  hatched,  the  song  was  not  nearly  so 
continuous ;  it  is  at  its  best  about  the  second  week  of 
May.  .  .  . 

"  The  nightingale  is  becoming  much  scarcer  in  England 
and  in  Europe  generally,  owing  to  the  bird-catchers.  In 
this  country  it  is  now  protected  by  the  Wild  Birds'  Pre- 
servation Acts,  which  were  passed  not  a  moment  too  soon. 
It  is  a  well-known  fact  that  one  year,  between  April  i3th 
and  May  2nd,  no  fewer  than  225  nightingales,  all  cocks  ex- 
cept six,  were  sent  to  a  dealer  by  three  bird-catchers.  The 
ease  with  which  it  is  caught  on  its  first  arrival  is  remarkable, 


"A   Hunt  for  the  Nightingale!"       325 

for  it  cannot  resist  a  meal-worm,  but  this  is  compensated  in 
some  measure  by  the  equal  difficulty  with  which  it  is  caught 
a  second  time  should  it  once  escape.  The  knowledge  of 
this  has  led,  in  some  localities,  to  a  practice  called  '  spark- 
ing,' i.e.,  capturing  the  birds  and  then  releasing  them.  As 
much  as  £$  has  been  paid  by  the  residents  in  Epping 
Forest  in  spring  to  a  professional  bird-catcher  to  '  spark'  all 
he  could.  They  must  have  been  plentiful  enough  in  days 
long  past,  as  we  read  of  a  Roman  emperor  regaling  himself 
on  a  dish  of  nightingales'  tongues  !  Attempts  have  been 
frequently  but  unsuccessfully  made  to  introduce  the  bird 
to  localities  where  it  is  not  found.  Evidently  some  'en- 
vironment' is  wanting  to  induce  it  to  take  up  its  abode 
in  any  place  in  which  food,  climate,  and  surroundings  are 
not  suitable." 

"  An  East  Kent  vicar,"  writing  to  the  Standard  on 
April  3,  1893,  respecting  "Early  Flowers,"  adds:  "Is 
it  quite  certain  that  the  nightingale  has  been  heard  at  Tor- 
quay ?  It  used  to  be  an  article  of  ornithological  faith  that 
that  sweetest  of  songsters  never  visited  the  counties  of  Devon 
and  Cornwall."  But  from  the  facts  we  have  here  presented, 
it  is  almost  certain  either  that  stray  nightingales  do  now 
visit  certain  parts  of  Devon,  or  else  that  natural  history 
observation  in  these  regions  is  more  thorough  and  exact 
than  it  used  to  be. 

One  of  the  most  interesting  and  amusing  natural  history 
sketches  produced  is  that  of  Mr.  John  Burroughs,  titled, 
"A  Hunt  for  the  Nightingale,"  republished  from  the  Century, 
in  the  volume  "  Fresh  Fields  "  (David  Douglas).  Though 
Mr.  Burroughs  reached  England  in  the  middle  of  May,  it 
did  not  strike  him  to  go  in  search  of  this  minstrel  till  the 
1 7th  of  June,  by  which  time  the  full  song  is  over.  If  it  is 
ever  heard  after  that,  it  is  in  the  case  of  a  second  nesting 
and  brooding,  and  the  song  in  this  case  is  invariably  weaker, 
more  broken,  and  disconnected  than  the  earlier  song.  It 
is  even  very  doubtful  if  that  five  minutes'  song  which  Mr 


326  Appen  dix. 


Burroughs  did  hear  was,  after  all,  the  song  of  the  nightingale, 
seeing  that  the  song  by  that  time  has  so  many  imitators ; 
and  it  does  not  appear  that  Mr.  Burroughs  saw  the  bird 
which  gave  the  short  shower  of  notes  he  set  down  as  those 
of  the  nightingale.  "  Its  start,"  he  says,  "  is  a  vivid  flash  of 
sound.  On  the  whole  a  highbred,  courtly,  chivalrous  song  ; 
a  song  for  ladies  to  hear  leaning  from  embowered  windows 
on  moonlight  nights ;  a  song  for  royal  parks  and  groves, 
and  easeful  but  impassioned  life.  We  [Americans]  have  no 
bird-voice  so  piercing  and  loud,  with  such  flexibility  and 
compass,  such  full-throated  harmony  and  long-drawn  ca- 
dences, though  we  have  songs  of  more  melody,  tenderness, 
and  plaintiveness.  None  but  the  nightingale  could  have 
inspired  Keats's  ode — that  longing  for  self-forgetfulness  after 
the  oblivion  of  the  world,  to  escape  the  fret  and  fever  of  life— 

'  And  with  thee  fade  into  the  forest  dim.' " 

One  very  common  error  about  the  nightingale,  as  observed 
in  the  text,  is  that  it  sings  only  at  night.  But  it  is  to  be 
heard  through  the  day  also — only,  the  chorus  of  other  birds' 
songs  then  make  it  less  emphatic  and  noticeable.  Another 
error  is  that  it  is  only  to  be  heard  in  remote  places,  and  in 
the  depth  of  woods  and  great  gardens.  Nothing  could  be 
farther  from  the  fact.  The  nightingale  is  often  to  be  heard 
by  day  singing  in  the  most  exposed  places ;  often  by  hedge- 
rows, the  edges  of  plantations  and  underwoods,  by  the  very 
sides  of  much  frequented  roads  and  pathways. 

A  writer  in  the  Spectator  of  May  13,  1893,  has  thus 
described  the  nest  and  eggs  of  the  nightingale,  though 
he  fails  to  note  some  of  the  places  in  which  Mr.  Rawson 
and  others  have  found  the  nest : — 

"  The  eggs  and  nest  of  the  nightingale  are  both  so  beauti- 
ful and  so  unlike  those  of  any  other  English  bird,  that  it  is 
impossible  to  mistake  them  when  once  seen.  The  site  is 
nearly  always  chosen  among  the  brown  and  dead  oak  or 
Spanish  chestnut  leaves  which  lie  on  the  ground  among  the 


Nightingale  s  Nest.  327 

bramble  or  wild  rose  roots,  or  have  drifted  into  some  hollow 
of  a  bank.  Sometimes,  though  rarely,  the  position  is  open 
to  every  passer-by,  with  nothing  to  conceal  it  but  the  resem- 
blance of  the  nest  and  sitting  bird,  with  her  russet  back  to 
the  surrounding  colour.  The  outer  circle  of  the  nest  is 
built  of  dead  oak  leaves,  so  arranged  that  the  rim  of  the 
cup  is  broken  by  their  projections,  a  mode  of  concealment 
practised,  so  far  as  the  writer  knows,  by  the  nightingale 
alone  of  English  birds,  though  a  common  device  in  the 
nests  of  tropical  species.  The  lining  is  made  with  the 
skeleton  leaves  that  have  fallen  in  the  previous  winter,  and 
completed  with  a  few  strands  of  horse-hair,  on  which  the 
shining  olive-brown  eggs  are  laid.  There  are  few  prettier 
sights  than  that  of  a  nightingale  on  her  nest.  The  elegance 
of  the  bird,  the  exquisite  shades  of  the  russet  and  grey  of  its 
plumage,  set  in  the  circle  of  oak  leaves  among  the  briars, 
suggest  a  natural  harmony  and  refinement  in  keeping  with 
the  beauty  of  its  unrivalled  song." 


II. 

THE  VOLES. 

THERE  are  three  varieties  of  British  voles,  to  each  of  which 
we  have  incidentally  referred  in  the  body  of  the  book — the 
water-vole  (p.  52),  the  field-vole  (p.  104),  and  the  bank- 
vole  (p.  61). 

They  are  all  partially  dormant  in  the  winter,  laying  up  in 
their  holes  tiny  stores  of  food  against  a  temporary  awakening. 
They  are  all  very  shy  and  retiring,  and  till  a  comparatively 
late  period,  were  little  known,  and  were  vulgarly  confused 
with  rats  and  mice.  They  belong  to  a  wholly  different 
class,  and  as  we  have  said,  are  really  more  miniature  beavers 
than  rats  or  mice.  They  are  all  great  tunnellers,  and  drive 
their  little  runs  with  the  utmost  precision  to  the  exact  point 
they  desire.  The  two  first  are  strictly  vegetable  feeders, 
but  some  say  that  the  third  has  learned  to  try  an  insect  diet. 

1.  The  water-vole  (Arvicola  amphibius]  is  the  largest  of 
the  three.     He  usually  has  his  abode  on  the  borders  of  a 
pond  or  stream,  and  delights  to  browse  on  the  herbage  on 
the  banks.     He  is  known  widely  as  the  "water-rat,"  and 
often  bears  the  blame  of  actions  done  by  the  brown  rat, 
which  is  a  good  swimmer,  but  cannot  emulate  the  soft  noise- 
less motion  of  the  vole.     The  vole's  head  is  broader  than 
the  head  of  the  rat,  and  his  tail  is  shorter. 

2.  The  field-vole  (Arvicola  agrestis)  is  also  abundant;  he 
likes  to  burrow  in  the  banks  of  mossy  meadows,  and  is 
often  found  in  orchards  and  gardens,  as  well  as  in  cornfields. 
He  is  light-brown  in  colour,  and  the  under  parts  are  pale 

greyish.     The  fecundity  of  this  species  is  astonishing,  and 

328 


Red  Bank   Vole.  329 

if  they  once  get  a  footing  it  is  difficult  to  clear  them  out. 
In  a  wood  they  gnaw  the  tender  shoots  as  soon  as  they 
appear,  and  even  eat  off  parts  of  the  bark  of  grown  trees, 
and  clear  off  any  tree  roots  that  may  lie  in  the  line  of  their 
tunnels.  When  food  is  scarce  they  run  up  trees  squirrel- 
like  to  nibble  at  the  tenderer  bark  above.  The  field  vole's 
winter  stock  is  often  partially  composed  of  cherry  stones, 
which  it  gathers  at  the  points  where  it  finds  out  that  thrushes 
and  blackbirds  are  apt  to  drop  them,  having  eaten  the  fruit 
they  have  carried. 

3.  The  bank  vole,  or  "red  bank-vole  (Arvicola  glareolus) 
is  not  so  common  as  either  of  the  above  species.  It  is 
redder  in  the  colouring  than  the  water  vole  or  the  field  vole, 
and  it  is  longer  tailed.  It  affects  old  hedge  bottoms  with 
tangled  undergrowth.  It  is  said  to  be  a  slug,  worm,  and 
moth  eater,  though  its  main  staple  is  admitted  to  be  vege- 
tables ;  and  it  is  generally  held  to  be  more  carnivorous  than 
either  of  its  relations.  It  has  delicately  formed  legs  and 
feet,  with  peculiarly  bright  eyes.  It  is  not  so  fertile  as  the 
field  mole,  producing  only  four  or  five  young  ones.  But  on 
the  point  of  its  food  we  should  not  forget  the  opinion  of 
Mr.  Rope,  cited  at  p.  6 1  (note),  that  he,  having  kept  this 
species  for  long  periods  in  confinement,  found  they  too  were 
vegetable  feeders. 


III. 

THE  WOODPECKER'S  TONGUE,  &c. 

THE  green  woodpecker  has  a  tongue  perhaps  more  remark- 
able than  that  of  any  other  bird.  "  The  tongue  bones  are 
so  much  prolonged  that  they  pass  right  over  the  back  of 
the  head,  and  are  inserted  in  the  skull  just  above  the 
right  nostril ;  these  tongue  bones,  uniting  in  the  lower  jaw, 
become  consolidated  into  a  round  mass  about  the  thick- 
ness of  a  small  straw;  this  pierces  the  true  tongue  sub- 
stance, and  ends  in  a  horny  tip,  which  is  barbed  on  both 
sides."  By  means  of  his  powerful  bill  the  woodpecker 
hammers  into  the  bark  of  the  tree,  and  then  by  very  rapid 
and  extensive  protusions  of  the  tongue,  seizes  the  fugitive 
insects.  To  render  this  horny  tongue  slimy,  and  to  keep 
the  tip  of  it  constantly  moist,  two  large  glands  are  placed 
at  the  angles  of  the  lower  jaw,  and  these,  through  a  special 
duct,  pour  out  a  viscid  and  glutinous  secretion.  "This 
remarkable  structure,"  says  the  writer  above  quoted,  "  is 
one  that  is  easily  displayed  by  a  very  simple  dissection 
with  a  penknife ;  and  the  beautiful  fittings  and  marvellous 
elasticity  of  the  parts  can  so  well  be  seen  in  a  fresh  subject 
that  no  one  who  sees  can  help  admiring." 

Another  writer  says — 

"  Nature  has  appointed  the  woodpeckers  conservators 
of  the  wood  of  old  trees,  furnished  them  admirably  for 
their  office,  and  so  formed  their  habits  that  an  old  tree  is 
an  Eden  to  them,  fraught  with  safety,  and  redolent  of 
plenty  and  fatness.  So  exquisitely  are  they  fitted  for  their 
office  that  the  several  woodpeckers  vary  in  tint  with  the 

330 


Birds  and  Saliva.  331 

general  colours  of  the  trees  which  they  select.  If  it  is  an 
alternation  of  green  moss,  yellow  lichen,  and  ruby-tinted 
cups,  with  here  and  there  a  spot  of  black,  then  the  green 
woodpecker  comes  in  charge  ;  but  if  it  is  the  black  and 
white  lichens  of  the  alpine  forest,  then  we  may  look  for  the 
spotted  race  upon  the  bark." 

The  glutinous  secretion  which  we  find  in  practical  service 
in  so  many  birds  deserves  attention.  The  swallow  uses  it 
in  nest-building,  the  nightjar  uses  it  to  assist  it  to  keep  in 
its  mouth  the  moths  or  beetles  it  has  caught  in  flight  till 
with  them  it  can  feed  its  young ;  the  woodpecker  uses  it 
for  the  purpose  we  have  just  seen,  and  the  nuthatch  with 
it  gums  the  clay  with  which  it  reduces  to  true  proportions 
the  entrance  to  its  nest.  The  edible  nests  of  China,  which 
are  an  article  of  commerce,  are  chiefly  composed  of  this 
glutinous  secretion  which  the  birds  use  to  supply  the  lack 
of  other  materials  for  their  nests ;  and  evidently  the  king- 
fisher uses  something  of  the  same  kind  to  unite  together, 
however  flimsily,  the  fish  bones  of  which  he  forms  his  nest. 
And  is  it  not  likely  that  the  chaffinch  uses  something 
of  this  in  supplement  to  the  spiders'  webs,  in  so  neatly 
cementing  the  "  lichen  "  over  the  outside  of  its  nest  ?  Is 
it  not  possible  that  before  differentiation  this  was  even  a 
more  important  element  than  it  is  now  ? 


IV. 
THE  ROOKS. 

THE  crusade  against  the  poor  rooks  is  carried  on  so  syste- 
matically, the  farmers  being  apt  to  forget,  during  the  few 
weeks  in  spring  after  corn  has  been  sown,  the  great  services 
these  sable  insect-foes  render  during  the  other  eleven  months 
of  the  year,  that  we  reproduce  here  from  the  Zoologist  a 
simple,  practical,  and  inexpensive  means  of  protecting  the 
newly  sown  seed,  without  destroying  the  birds,  from  the 
pen  of  Mr.  Henry  Reeks,  F.Z.S.  : — 

"In  all  light  soils,  where  wire- worms  (larvae  of  the  genus 
Elater)  abound,  also  those  of  the  Tipulae  and  Noctuae,  it 
would  be  almost  impossible  to  grow  crops  of  corn  or  roots 
without  the  friendly  assistance  of  the  rook.  In  this  imme- 
diate neighbourhood,  where  the  soil  is  cold,  strong,  and 
heavy,  and  consequently  very  free  from  wire-worms,  rooks 
and  rookeries  are  comparatively  scarce ;  but  from  my  farm 
at  Thruxton,  where  the  soil  is  light  and  chalky,  I  can  stand 
and  see  seven  large  rookeries  within  a  radius  of  three  miles. 
Now,  for  at  least  nine  months  in  the  year,  these  hosts  of 
rooks  are  purely  insectivorous,  and  they  may  be  easily  com- 
pelled to  be  so  for  the  remaining  three  months.  When  the 
autumn  and  spring  corn  is  being  sowed,  and  until  after  the 
spire  or  blade  is  well  out  of  ground,  it  is  absolutely  neces- 
sary in  large  fields  to  employ  a  man  with  a  gun,  and  also 
when  the  corn  is  in  the  sheaf,  but  not  so  when  it  is  ripen- 
ing ;  then  a  very  simple  device  will  keep  them  off  much 
more  effectually  than  any  gun,  unless  always  present.  I  buy 

a  pound  of  good  strong  crochet-cotton,  which  costs,  I  think, 

332 


Treatment  for  Rooks.  333 


about  four  shillings  ;  this  is  wound  off  into  balls  rather  larger 
than  a  cricket-ball.  I  cut  then  a  number  of  sticks  about 
half-an-inch  in  diameter  and  two  feet  long ;  these  are  stuck 
in  the  ground  by  the  side  of  the  corn,  and  about  fifteen 
yards  apart.  I  then  run  down  by  this  row  of  sticks,  paying 
the  cotton  out  as  I  go,  and  tying  it  with  a  double  knot  at 
each  stick,  and  about  a  foot  from  the  ground.  No  rooks 
will  ever  pull  ears  of  corn  over  or  under  this  barrier.  To 
string  a  hundred  and  fifty  acres  of  corn  round  in  this 
manner  is  only  a  summer's  evening  amusement  for  two 
persons — one  to  carry  and  stick  in  the  sticks,  and  the  other 
to  follow  and  fasten  on  the  cotton.  Where  this,  or  the 
gun,  has  been  neglected,  I  have  known  a  large  flock  of 
rooks  to  carry  away  and  spoil  five  pounds'  worth  of  corn  in 
a  single  day !  By  adopting  the  simple  means  I  advise, 
rooks  are  driven  to  search  behind  the  ploughs  and  in  pas- 
tures for  their  favourite  and  legitimate  food.  Although 
perhaps  the  most  useful  of  British  birds,  it  was  quite  right 
not  to  include  it  in  the  schedule  of  "  wild  birds  "  for  pro- 
tection ;  we  could  scarcely  have  done  away  with  our  social 
meeting  once  a  year  for  rook-shooting,  or  the  cold  rook-pie 
as  an  after-luxury.  I  have  never  known  a  rookery  decrease 
where  the  young  rooks  have  been  annually  shot  at,  provided 
the  birds  are  not  persecuted  more  than  one  evening." 

A  good  authority  says  :  "  Rooks  intermarry  every  year, 
chiefly  amongst  the  occupants  of  adjacent  rookeries.  If  a 
male  should  be  so  bold  as  to  bring  home  to  his  rookery  a 
bride  from  a  distance,  the  other  rooks  would  not  receive 
her,  and  would  force  the  pair  to  build  some  way  off.  In 
the  neighburhood  of  the  big  rookeries  outlying  nests  of  this 
kind  can  always  be  found." 


V. 


FEET  OF  THE  DIPPER  AND  COOT. 

THE  fact  that  the  feet  of  the  dipper  are  still  like  the  feet  of 
the  thrush,  and  that  the  feet  of  the  coot  have  only  web-like 
expansions,  as  we  have  said,  on  the  sides  of  the  toes,  gives 
Mr.  Lydekker  ("  Phases  of  Animal  Life ")  the  suggestion 
that  the  aquatic  habits  of  these  birds  are  of  comparatively 
recent  acquisition,  and  have  not  yet  induced  any  strongly 
marked  structural  peculiarity. 


334 


INDEX. 


ABBOTSFORD,  229,  275. 
Abinger,  171-172. 
Acklington,  293,  301. 
Alder-trees,  50. 
Allen,  Mr.  Grant,  236. 
Anemones,  wild,  77,  97. 
Argyll,  Duke  of  (quoted),  211. 
Armstrong,  Lord,  296. 
Ash,  the,  86-88 ;  mountain,  139. 
Ashestiel,  272. 

BABOONS  killing  lambs,  33-34. 
Barley,  151. 
Beaumont,  the,  307. 
Beech,  the  copper,  19,  139. 
Beeches,  97,  119,  137,  179. 
Bees,  44,  47,  132,  165,  1 94-1 97- 
Bee-sting  not    only  for  stinging, 

204. 
Beetles,  166,  168. 

water,  66. 

Besant,  Mr.  Walter,  303. 
Birch,  the,  86,  87,  139. 
Bird-catchers,  120. 
Birds,'perseverance  of,  63. 
Blackbird,  the,  29,  37,  in,  112, 

115-116,  284. 

Blue-tit,  the,  26,  27,  113,  116. 
Boatman,  the  water,  65. 
Box-nests,  141. 
"Bracelets" — Lackey  moth's  eggs, 

89. 
Brambles,  105. 


I    Brancepeth  Castle,  281. 

Brinkbtirn  Priory,  299. 
j    Browning,  Robert  (quoted),  99. 

Mrs.    Barrett    (quoted),   84, 

150. 

Buchanan,  Robert,  and   the  star- 
ling, Si- 

Buckland,  Frank,  222. 

Bull,  an  infuriated,  130. 

Bullace-trees,  51,  80. 

Bullfinch,    the,    27,  35,  120-121, 

122. 

Bulrush,  the,  191,  192. 

Burns,  Robert  (quoted),  17,  76. 

Burroughs,   John    (quoted),    118, 

199,  200,   257. 
Buttercups,  136. 
Butterflies,  71,  132,  165. 

CATTLE  awakening,  121. 
Cats,  poaching,  124-125. 
Cedar,  the,  42,  138. 
Celandine,  97. 
Cereals,  varieties  of,  157. 
Chaffinch,  the,  40-42,  122. 
Chestnut,  the,  138. 
Chestnut-buds,  gummy,  45. 
Cheswick,  292. 
Cheviot  Hills,  289-303. 
Chevy  Chase,  314. 
Chillingham  cattle,  314. 
Churches  in  Wooler,  309. 
Cloisters,  leafy,  139. 


335 


336 


Index. 


Cloud  and  mist,  235,  237. 

Coldharbour,  168. 

Coleridge  (quoted),  18,  74,  305. 

College,  the,  307. 

Constable's  country,  181. 

Coot,  the,  54,  193,  254-255  ;  feet 

of,  334- 

Copper-beech,  the,  19,  139. 
Coquetdale,  289. 
Coquet  Island,  304. 
Cormorants,  259,  262-263. 
Corncrake,  the,  119,  149. 
Coupland  Castle,  315. 
Cowslips,  136. 
Cragside,  296,  297. 
Cross-bill,  the,  177. 
Crows,  117-118. 
Croxdale,  288. 
Cuckoo,  the,  III,  132. 
Curlew,  the,  127,  165, 

DABCHICKS,  193,  264. 

Daffodils,  84,  194. 

Dandelion,  persistency  of,  13,  14. 

Dante's  literality,  236. 

Darwin,  discovery  of,  84  ;  Darwin 

(quoted),  105. 
Dedham,  181. 
Dee,  the,  212. 
Defoe  (quoted),  309. 
Dell,  a  little,  135. 
Devon,  nightingales  in,  321. 
Dipper,  the,  122  ;  feet  of,  334. 
Ditch,  a  dry,  107. 
Dixon,  Mr.  D.  D.,  290,  292,  294, 

295,  296. 
"Dora,"  153. 
Dragon-flies,  64-65,  122. 
"  Drawing  water,"  187. 
Drosera  rotundifolia,  II,  12. 
Dryburgh  Abbey,  227. 
Dry  ditch,  a,  107. 
Ducks,  wild,  193. 
Durham    city,    277  ;    Cathedral, 

278-279,  281. 


EAST  Bergholt,  181. 
Eden,  the,  219-222. 
Edwards,  Thomas,  of  Banff,  62, 

265-266. 

Eggs,  sea-birds',  266. 
Eggs  of  nightjar,  171. 
Eisdale,  Dr.,  and  mushrooms,  16. 
Elder,  101. 
Elibank  Tower,  229. 
Ellen's  Isle,  Loch  Katrine,  206. 
Elms,  119,  174. 
Emerson  (quoted),  48. 
Ettrick,  219. 
Eyes  of  birds,  35-36. 

FAA,  story  of  Willie,  294. 
Farming,  scientific,  157  ;  by  rule 

of  thumb,  158. 
Felton,  300. 

Ferguson,  Mr.  J.,  of  Morpeth,  294. 
Fern?,  1 1 . 

Finchale  Priory,  283-284. 
Firs,  119. 
Fishponds,  183. 
Flags,  the,  193,  244. 
Flodden,  224-225,  313. 
Forget-me-nots,  98. 
Foxgloves,  10,  42,  43,  98. 
Friday  Street,  the  Swiss-like,  171. 
Frog,  the,  124. 

Fruit-eaters  and  seed-eaters,  33. 
Furze,  the,  165. 

GANNET,  the,  262. 

"Gardener's  Chronicle"  (quoted), 

201. 

Garden  warbler,  the,  94-95. 
Gareloch,  the,  210. 
Geese,  wild,  261. 
Gibson,  W.  S.  (quoted),  284. 
Glastonbury  Thorn,  137. 
Glaucus  pine,  the,  137. 
Glenesk,  191. 
Glow-worm,  166. 
Goethe's  parable,  115,  116. 


Index. 


337 


Goldcrest,  the,  42. 

Goldfinch,  the,  28,  120-121,  165. 

Golden-eye,  the,  256. 

Gomshall,  172. 

Graham,  Mr.  Peter,  R.A.,  213. 

Grasses,  190. 

Great  Tosson,  290. 

Grebe,  the  little,  or  dabchick,  264 

Grebe,  the  loon,  or  crested,  257. 

Guillemots,  the,  262. 

Gull,  black -backed,  260. 

Gulls,  258-260. 

HAMLEY,  Sir  Edward,  and  "  Out- 
Poor  Relations"  (quoted),  67, 
68. 

Hare,  a  limping,  129  ;  cry  of 
hare,  130. 

Hartley,  Will,  242-243. 

Harvest  of  the  hedgerows,  102- 
104. 

Hall's  "  Guide  to  Glendale,"  311. 

Haughhead,  312. 

Hawfinch,  the,  28. 

Hawthorn,  105. 

Hazels,  77,  84,  85,   179. 

I  ledgers,  their  art,  105-106. 

Hedgehogs,  70,  83. 

Hedgerow  timber,  100. 

Hedgerows,  harvest  of  the,  102- 
104. 

Heine,  Heinrich  (quoted),  208. 

Hens,  opposing  instincts  in,  43. 

Herbert,  George  (quoted),  136. 

Herb-robert,  97. 

Hermitage,  the  Warkworth,  304- 

305. 

Heron,  the7,  269,  270,  271. 
Hogg,  James,  275. 
Holly,  the,  99  ;  a  peculiarity,  100, 
101,  167. 

hedges,  97. 

Honeysuckle,  II,  132. 
Hornbeam,  the,  138. 
"Hot  Trod,"  a  ballad,  291. 


Hourn,  Loch,  231. 
Housewives'  parliament,  187. 
Human  nature  in  man,  189. 
Hunt,  Leigh  (quoted),  135. 
Hyacinths,  blue,  77-79. 
white,  76. 

IMITATIVE  birds  and  nightingale, 

319. 

Infancy,  why  poetic  and  sugges- 
tive, I54-I5S. 

Ingelow,  Jean  (quoted),  238. 
Instincts  in  hens,  opposing,  43. 
Iris,  the,  60,  224. 
Ivy,  19,  88. 

JACKDAW,  the,  256. 

Japonica,  56,  137. 

Jones,  Mr.  T.  Mann,  320-323. 

KEA  or  lory  of  New  Zealand,  34. 
Kingfisher,  the,  245-247. 
Kingsley,  Charles,  67. 

LABURNUMS,  138,  167. 
Lackey-moth's     eggs  —  "  brace- 
lets," 89. 

Lakes,  inland,  205. 
Lambs,  baboons  killing,  33-34. 
1  anton  Hill,  314. 
Lapwing,  the,  126-127,  284. 
Lark,  the,  in,  149. 
Lauder,  Sir  Thomas  Dick,  213. 
Laurel,  97. 
Leistering,  223,  296. 
Lilac,  the,  10,  138,  167. 
Lime-trees,  21,  101. 
Linnets,  19,  165. 
Lockhart,  J.  G.  (quoted),  276. 
Long,  Mr.  James  (quoted),  18, 107. 
Loon,  the,  or  crested  grebe,  257. 
Lory  or  kea,  New  Zealand,  34. 
Lubbock,  Sir  John  (quoted),  201. 
Luther  (quoted),  209. 
Lyne,  the,  2 1 8. 

Y 


338 


Index. 


MACDONALD,  Dr.  George,  213. 
Macgillivray  (quoted),  256,  261. 
Maclagan,  Alexander  (quoted), 

269. 
Macleod,    Dr.  .Norman,  and  the 

starling,  31. 

MacTaggart,  W.,  R.S.A.,  213. 
MacWhirter,  John,  R.A.,  208. 
Magnolia-tree,   137. 
Mallard,  the,  253-255. 
Mallard  in  flight,  126. 
Man,  Isle  of,  and  the  sea-birds,  268. 
Manor,  the,  218. 
Medlar-tree,  139. 
Melrose  Abbey,  227. 
Mergansers,  the,  256. 
Milton  (quoted),  173.  236. 
Minnehaha,  182. 
Moles,  89,  124,  149. 
Moonlight  on  the  pond,  70-71. 
Mosse's  Wood,  168. 
Moths,  the  night-,  72,  168. 
Mountain-ash  (rowan-tree),  139. 
Muckle-mou'ed  Meg,  229. 
Miiller,  F.  (quoted),  199. 

NAPIER,  Mr.  Groome,  60. 
Neidpath  Castle,  229. 
Nest-building,  odd  places  for,  39. 
Nest  of  wren,  25. 
Nettles,  16. 

Nightingales  at  the  Vicarage,  135. 
Nightingale,  A  Hunt  for  the,  325. 
Nightingale's  nest,  327. 
Nightjar,  the,  169  ;  eggs  of,  171. 
Norham,  227-228,  229. 
"North,  Christopher,"  237. 
Northesk,  the,  212. 
Northumberland,  Duke  of,  303. 
Nuthatch,  the,  178,  179. 
Nutting,  103. 

OAK-TREES,  51,  87,  119,  138, 139. 
Ockley,  168. 
Orchard,  the,  183. 


Otters,  221. 

Owl,  the,  125,  179. 

Owl,  the  barn-,  52,  69. 

PAUPERHAUGH,  or  Pepperhaugh, 

298. 

Peel  towers,  290. 
Penguins,  259,  263. 
Petrels,  the,  263. 
Pike-shooting,  184. 
Pintail,  the,  252. 
Plane-tree   or   sycamore,   45-46  : 

the  Samarras,  47-48.   :  -.  . 
Plantain,  14. 
Poachers,    why    they    don't   like 

traps,  129. 

Poaching  cats,  124-125. 
Poaching,  salmon,  295. 
Pomegranate,  137. 
Pond,   my,   49  ;   sunset   effect   on 

it,  Si- 
Primroses,  1C,  79,  97. 

—  evening,  73. 
Privet  hedge?,  97,  105. 

QUAIR,  the,  225. 
Quincey,   Thomas    de,  85    (note], 
106,  235. 

RAWNSLEY,  Mr.  H.  D.  (quoted), 

267. 

Rabbiting,  90-91. 
Rabbits,  124,  129,  165. 
Rabbits'  tails,  why  white,  75. 
Rachan  Valley,  210. 
Rats,  93,  128,  129. 
Rawson,  Rev.  A.,  324. 
Red  lands  Wood,  172. 
Reek?,  Mr.  Henry,  332. 
Rhabdomancy  (note),  851. 
Ring  dotterel,  the,  263. 
Roach,  the,  181. 
Robins   and   wrens,    25  ;     Robin 

(building),   26,    64,    in,    113, 

116,  141,  142. 


Index. 


339 


Romanes,  J.  G.  (quoted),  199. 
Rooks,  117-118,  149,  332-333. 
Rope,  Mr.  G.  T.  (quoted),  6 1  not . 
Rothbury,  290,  292,  293,  297. 
Rosenenth  Hill.  210. 
Rushes,  190. 

ST.  JOHN,  Charles,  67,  69. 
Salmon  loups,  221. 
Samarras  of  the  sycamore,  47-48. 
Sand-martins,  120. 
Sawbill,  the,  256. 
Scaup,  the,  256. 
Scott,  Sir  Water,  272,  312-313. 
Seabirds'  eggs,  266. 
Sea-pie,  the,  259. 
Sedges,  193,  194,  2.44. 
Seed-eaters  and  fruit-eaters,  33. 
Siege,  a,  21. 

Shag,  the  (cormorant),  259. 
Shairp,  Principal  (quoted),  226. 
Sheldrake,  the,  255. 
Shepherd  at  eariy  morn,  126. 
Shoveller,  the,  255. 
Shrews  (water),  80-8 1. 
Smiles,  Dr.  S.,  62. 
Smith,  Alexander  (quoted),  152. 
"  Smoked-out,"  22,  23. 
"  Smoking  allowed,  No,"  92. 
Snails  in  beehive,  197. 
"Snipe,  summer,"  61  ;  rain  indi- 
cators, 62. 
Solan  geese,  262. 
"Son  of  the  Marshes"  (quoted), 

222. 

Soutlie'sk,  the,  212. 

Southey,  Robert  (quoted),  100. 

Sparrows, '19,  21,  113,  114,  116. 

Spate  on  Scottish  stream,  a,  214. 

Speedwell,  the,  97. 

Spey,  the,  212,  213. 

Spiders'  webs,  165,  used  by  birds 

in  nest-building,  41,  331. 
Spruce,  the,  139. 
Squirrels,  70,  89,  128. 


Stanley,  Dr.,  Bishop  of  Norwich, 

55- 

Starling,  the,  29,  30,  31,  32. 
Sterne's  starling,  31. 
Sticklebacks,     161,     162  ;     their 

nests,  163,  241. 
Still  water,  205. 

Sting  of  bee  really  a  trowel,  264. 
Story,  Shepherd-poet,  314. 
Stour,  the,  181. 
Suffolk  stand-up  wheat,  156. 
Sultan  Solyman,  145,  321. 
Sunderland  Bridge,  284. 
Sunrise  in  summer,  109-110. 
Sunset  on  my  pond,  51. 
Surrey  Hills,  the,  167. 
Swallows,  19,  21,  119. 
Sycamore  or  plane-tree,  45-46,  97, 

101  ;  the  Samarra5,  47-48. 

TANKERVILLE    ARMS,    Wooler, 

307. 

Tay,  the,  212. 

Taylor,  Dr.  J.  E.  (quoted),  15. 
Teal,  the,  253,  255. 
Tennyson,  Lord  (quoted),  45,  47. 

65,86,  151,  152,  153,  156,  238, 

240. 

Thaxter,  Celia  (quoted),  44. 
Thistles,  17. 
Thoreau,  171. 
Thorn-trees,  n,  138. 

hedges,  97. 

Thrum  Mill,  the,  293. 

Thrush,     fearlessness     of,     when 

brooding,  63. 
"Thrush,  the  wise,"  99,  ill,  112, 

113,  115,  284. 
Till,  the,  223-225. 
Tit,  the  blue,  26,  27,  40,  113,  116. 
Todsted  Farm,  297. 
Tomlinson,  Mr.  W.  W.,  292,  303, 

316. 

Tongue  of  woodpecker,  330-331. 
Tosson,  great,  290. 


340 


Index. 


Tramps,  311. 

Traps,  why  poachers  don't  like,  1 29. 
Traquair,  the  bush  aboon,  226. 
Tufted  duck,  the,  256. 
.Tummel  Falls,  211. 
Turnstone,  the,  264-266. 
Tweed,  the,  219-224. 
Twisel,  Bridge  of,  224. 
Tynemouth,  292. 

VEITCH,  Prof,  (quoted),  218. 
Vicar,  our,  141-144. 
Violets,  wild,  79,  97. 
Voles,  the,  329. 

WAGTAIL,  the  pied,  113. 
Wailes,  Mr.  (quoted),  202. 
Warkworth,  293,  301-304. 

Hermitage,  304-305. 

Wasps  in  beehive,  197. 
Waterhens,  53  ;  their  young,  54  ; 

raising  their  nest  in  flood,  56, 

254-255- 

Water-lily,  the,  80,  243. 
Water-rats,  59,  254-255. 
Water-shrews,  80-8 1,  244. 
Waterton,  Charles,  41,  67,  140. 
Water-voles,  57-58;  great  tunnel- 

lers»  59  5  vegetable  feeders,  59- 

61,  244,  329. 


Watkins,  Rev.  G.  M.,  67. 

Waybread  or  plantain,  15. 

Weasels,  93,  124,  125,  128. 

Weldon  Bridge,  299. 

Well,  the  village,  187. 

Wheat-fields,  147-151  ;  and  the 
poets,  155. 

Whitethroat,  the,  99. 

Wild-ducks,  193. 

Widgeon,  the,  254. 

Wild  geese,  261. 

Willows,  50,  80,  85,  138;  weep- 
ing, 139- 

Wood,  Rev.  J.  G.,  and  the  birds, 
114,  115. 

Woodpecker,  174-176. 

Woodpecker's  tongue,  330,  331. 

Wood-pigeon,  37,  38,  39,  93,  117, 
261. 

Wooler,  307-314. 

Wordsworth  (quoted),  79,  117, 
194,  240. 

Wren  and  robin?,  25,  in,  113, 
116. 

YAIR,  229. 
Yarrow,  219. 
Yeavering  bell,  315. 
Yellowhammer,  120. 
Yew-trees,  105. 


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EDINBURGH  AND  LONDON. 


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